Decadence
by Ayezur
Summary: Sara Bucket is stern, doesn't particularly like candy, isn't very childish, and has a low tolerance for flights of fancy. But when she smiles, she's the most beautiful woman in the world. Depp!Wonka, vaguely mature themes tho nothing graphic, rewritten
1. Spinning Out pt I

**Disclaimer: All people, places, and situations contained within this fanfiction with the exception of Sara Bucket and certain bit players associated solely with her are the sole property of the Dahl estate. I have no monetary claim to them and am not making a profit off of this work.**

**A/N: So… here goes. For those of you who will read this and go "WTF, he's not a rapist!" I can only say to trust me, because I have no such ridiculousness in mind. Everything will be revealed in time.**

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_If it makes you less sad, I will die by your hand.  
__I hope you find out what you want; I already know what I am.  
__And if it makes you less sad, we'll start talking again.  
__And you can tell me how vile I already know that I am.  
__I'll grow old and start acting my age.  
__I'll be a brand new day in a life that you hate.  
__A crown of gold, a heart that's harder than stone.  
__And it hurts a whole lot, but it's missed when it's gone.  
__Call me a safe bet, I'm betting I'm not.  
__I'm glad that you can forgive, I'm only hoping as time goes, you can forget._

- "The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot," Brand New

The bright summer sun slanted through the high window and hit Sara Bucket on the face, waking her from a dream of shifting colors. Her hindbrain told her that the light was too angled and clear to be the grimy low beam from the window of her tiny room behind the fireplace at home and her brown eyes snapped open, fuzzy with sleep. The light was not the dirty light that had invaded her every morning for eighteen years; nor was it the muted light of her wrong-facing window in the dormitories at college; nor was it the constant humming softness of the chocolate room's artificial sun.

Something stirred against her back, some_one_, and she froze. The easiest thing in the world was to turn over and look but she couldn't and her eyes scanned the room for any sign of who she was lying with. They settled on a pile of clothing, hers and someone else's, and draped across them like a defeated army's banner was a maroon velvet coat.

The person – _It's Mr. Wonka, Charlie's Mr. Wonka, oh god what have I done?_ – he stirred against her again and his arm slipped lazily over her abdomen as he pulled her closer and buried his face in her neck. It was wrong – he hated touching and being touched; he could tolerate a friendly touch from Charlie and then only just –

but the evidence was there, pressed cool and dry against the skin of her back. They were naked, which she supposed made sense, because their clothing was on the floor. He exhaled and she shuddered as his breath ran across her neck.

"…Sara?"

There was a sleepy hum in his voice, a strange satisfaction that she knew would fade as soon as he realized what had happened, just as it had for her; an icy shockwave of impossibility drowning the last remnants of whatever insanity had gripped them both.

"Go back to sleep."  
"…'kay…"

She didn't move as he breathed in and out again deeply, amazed at her own serenity. She knew she should feel something – will feel something as soon as the adrenaline rush is gone and she can think about the exact ramifications of what they've done – but at the moment there was just a muted roaring void and she was thankful for it. The void had eaten her memories of the night before and she hoped they'd stay where they belong, in that void.

She judged it safe to slip out from under his arm and grabbed the bedpost, balancing on her one good leg. Her cane was leaning against the other side of the bed that she refused to look at except out of the corner of her eye. Her right leg, shriveled and useless, barely touched the ground as she hopped over, using the bedframe to support herself. In her quiet horror, she somehow found the time to be embarrassed at the way her breasts jiggled slightly with each motion and almost laughed. Finally she grabbed the smooth stick of wood and pulled herself up, back ramrod straight from years of refusing to bend, and strode over to her clothing.  
Another indignity awaited; Mr. Wonka's room was not designed for a cripple, and so she had to bend down and gather all her clothing before pulling herself up again with the cane's help and almost falling. She put all her clothing on top of his dresser and grabbed the edge, resting her cane against it and then dressed one-handedly with the ease of long experience. She had, after all, been crippled for nearly twenty years.

Her hairpins were scattered around the lush carpet and she abandoned the idea of finding enough to twist her hair up and back and keep it in place. She left it loose instead, flowing halfway down her back, pale gold compared to the light streaming from the window. It seemed incongruous to her that a recluse would design his room to receive so much light, but she knew full well she was incapable of thinking on his level. Charlie could, and for that she was grateful; the boy was always different, always set apart, loving and dreaming of things she learned to forget she'd ever wanted. He had a good place here – her leaving will not change that.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An Oompa-Loompa was kind enough to guide her home. Not for the first time, she wondered if that was their real name, and if the story told about them was true. But the strange little people held their secrets and their silence, and to prove Mr. Wonka a liar – though Sara had no doubt he was an inveterate one – would hurt Charlie, and that she could never do. The being bowed solemnly before hurrying with gravity to whatever task she had interrupted and Sara called her thanks to its retreating back.

No one in the slanted house was awake yet, a small mercy. Sara slid past her sleeping grandparents on bare feet, holding her hard spinster's shoes in her hand and crept into her tiny room, shutting the door with a click not even the comparatively sharp-eared Grandpa George could hear. She sat down on the rusted iron bed with caution, relaxing slowly into the thin mattress so that the metal didn't creak and wake her parents, who slept just next door. They used to have the whole room, until she came home one day and found that for her thirteenth birthday – because she was a teenager now – Father had built a wall across it and said one half was hers.

Sara stared into the mirror across from her. The top of it was spiderwebbed with cracks and bits of the glass and silver backing within the hair-thin lines were coming loose, but she could still see herself. She looked, as far as she could tell, no different except that her hair wasn't pinned up. She knew by looking down that her black broomstick skirt was no more ruffled then if she'd slept in it, as she sometimes did when she stayed up too late improving her mind. Her blouse was also rumbled, but again only as if she'd slept in her clothes. If the night had left any physical marks, they were well hidden; she always covered as much skin as possible. In the summer she would change from high necks and tight long sleeves to a modest scoop-cut that barely showed the tips of her collarbones and looser sleeves, but that was the extent of it. She examined herself in the mirror, noting without pleasure that she had high, strong cheekbones, well-formed features, and a mouth in a permanent expression of tightlipped sternness.

There was nothing there to attract a flighty half-or-all-child like Mr. Wonka.

Was there?

Her memory lurched and threw up the closest thing it had to an answer…

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_It was three weeks into summer and Sara was sitting just outside the house, reading and wishing vaguely that there was space for some real greenery. It wasn't that the candy foliage wasn't beautiful, because it was, and it wasn't that she found the constant smell of sugar wearing, because she didn't; it was just that her eyes ached to rest on something that wasn't glaringly perfect and gorgeously surreal for a change. Her family had wanted her to come and live with them when the Bostwicks had let her go. She could not fault her employers their decision, though she'd ferociously smothered her anger at the upper-class stupidity of it all. The Bostwicks and the Salts were old friends. It would have been unseemly to keep a tutor and governess who was the elder sister of the boy whose triumph had humiliated dear little Veruca so, especially given how she and Adelaide were such good little chums. Sara knew – because Adelaide Bostwick had whispered it to her in a fierce hug when the girl had found her packing in her room – that Adelaide had never liked Veruca, and now hated her even more.  
__So she was waiting, now, for the Landons and their brood – Elizabeth, Roland, Mary, Jemma, Franklin, Maximillian, and Samantha, if she recalled their names correctly from the interminable birthday parties – to return from their extended vacation in Greece. Landon and Bostwick were rivals, socially and in terms of business; once the Landons heard she had been let go, they were sure to hire her if only to spite the Bostwicks. The only amusing thing in the whole farce was that the Landon children and Adelaide had been great good friends, and Sara had often turned a blind eye to her charge sneaking out to go visit them. The Landons were a wild bunch, as Bohemian as the British upper-class got, and some gleefully malicious corner of her approved entirely of Adelaide's association with them.  
__But until then, she was living with her parents in the factory – living off Mr. Wonka, which made her uneasy. She was not the only one. Grandpa George had remarked quietly to her one day that before Charlie had won "that damned ticket, the Buckets never took charity nor lived at the mercy of any man."_

"_Sara! Sara, look at this!"_

_She looked up as Charlie raced towards her, waving something so quickly that it was little more then a red smear to her eyes. He pulled himself up just short of running her over and collapsed on the sugar-grass with the unbounded enthusiasm only small children and those who think like them possess, grinning his crooked little-boy grin. She smiled in response, feeling light-hearted as only Charlie could make her. He was such a good, sweet boy…_

"_Look at this, Sara. Mr. Wonka and I just put the finishing touches on the prototype."_

_She took the proffered item. It was a small red kite, sticky as all candy is after being held and smelling of sugar and glaze. _

"_It's a kite! See, look here, the cloth is raspberry, and the sticks are peppermint and it's got a licorice string, we tied it like this so the flavors wouldn't blend and it comes apart like so, you can even fly it, only it'll have to be much bigger because this it just a model…"_

_Sara listened without really hearing as Charlie pointed out all the features and explained in great detail the processes they had used to build it, including everything but the important secrets he was honor-bound never to tell. Most of the explanation involved the long series of failures before they'd found just the right thinness of raspberry cloth to have it work as a real kite, and left out the bit about how you made raspberry cloth in the first place. The ins and outs of candymaking were of no real interest to her, but the important thing was that Charlie was happy. He loved living in the factory, and working with Mr. Wonka, and that made everything else completely irrelevant._

_Eventually Charlie ran off to show his creation to his grandparents and Sara's smile faded as she picked up her book again, only to start at a soft voice coming from over her left shoulder. The tone was surprised and a little stilted, but also somehow… interested?_

"_You know, you're really pretty when you smile."_

_She turned in time to catch Mr. Wonka walking away_

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sarah closed her eyes and lay back on the bed, cursing herself as a fool. Any sensible person would have taken note and been wary but not her, no – she was so convinced that she'd read Mr. Wonka properly, that he was too much of a child to be a threat and was only commenting as a child did… so of course, when he offered her a cup of some new chocolate drink he'd just invented she drank it with him, not wondering why he was asking her to taste-test it when there were plenty of other members of the family within shouting distance and she'd made damn sure he was intimidated by her; after all, she was a governess and a private tutor and could frighten any child with her steel spine and no-nonsense glare, it came with the territory.  
The important thing was to get away. She still had some money in her bank account, enough to live on for a few months, and the Landons would be back from Greece soon and in the meantime she would scout out jobs at boarding schools or, if it came to that, public ones. And hopefully the void where last night should be would never fill with more then flashes of heated images and sensory memories of skin and sweat and strain…

_Enough!_

She would announce her intentions at breakfast and leave to find an apartment that very morning.


	2. Spinning Out pt II

**A/Ns: Wow, I never expected to garner this sort of response. So… might as well.  
**

**Kurumi: I really have no excuse for changing the description of her getting dressed except that I felt like it, and the new version flowed better IMHO.**

**Response to The Island Hopper has been removed because it was taking up too much space. For the curious - we had a mutual misunderstanding that has since been resolved. Nothing very serious.**

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_If temptation ever came my way  
I know the words I'd always say  
I'll never hide my love from you  
You're my deepest blue_

_Am I dreaming now?  
Walking on the moon  
And I don't know how to read you, baby  
Every time I try to move closer…_

- "Deepest Blue," Deepest Blue

Willy Wonka stretched and rolled over into a patch of sun. This woke him up, as he realized that he shouldn't have been able to do that; there should have been someone there, stopping him. A minute later he realized that in and of itself was deeply unusual, and sat up. The covers slid off his chest and pooled in his lap as he sat cross-legged and tried to remember what had happened.

He'd made a special new kind of chocolate drink specifically with Charlie's older sister, Sara, in mind. She didn't smile enough, and she was so pretty when she smiled – not that he'd seen her smile more then once, but he remembered it clearly. She'd lit up and shone from within, glowing and warm and not at all the frightening old schoolmarm he'd taken her for. So he'd made a special kind of chocolate with increased amounts of the property that caused endorphins levels to rise. When people felt like they were in love, they were happy, and when they were happy, they smiled.

And furthermore (he thought while climbing out of bed), she'd smiled that way for Charlie, and he wanted her to smile that way for him. It didn't seem quite fair, somehow, that she could love only one person in her family enough to smile like that at them, to light up inside just from being around them and seeing that they were happy. No one had ever smiled at him that way. Because of him, certainly, because he was the greatest chocolatier and candymaker in the world and his creations delighted children all over the world.

But no one had ever smiled _at him_, because they enjoyed being near him. Except Charlie, but that hardly counted; they were practically identical in every way, except even he had to admit somewhere in his fevered brain that Charlie was far better adjusted then he.

_Where was I?_

He pulled on his pants while searching his memory for what had happened last night. He'd given her the drink, and then he'd had some, too, because he was interested in the effects and because who didn't mind a little extra happiness here and there?

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Warmth spread throughout his body, which was very odd because the drink was cold. It wasn't the kind of steady, creeping warmth he associated with hot chocolate, though… this was more of a quick jolt that left him feeling tingly and hypersensitive. Interesting._

_He took another drink and looked over at Sara. She had almost finished her glass and had set it aside on the sugar-grass. Now she was sitting with her knees draw up to her chest, arms wrapped under her legs to keep her skirt in place, and staring off into space. Her book – she was always reading, which he didn't quite understand but didn't dislike, either – was lying near the glass, untouched. _

_She seemed to be trembling._

"_What's the matter?"_

_He could barely hear her over the roar of the chocolate waterfall. Willy cupped a hand around his ear and leaned in._

"_Speak up, I really can't hear you when you mumble like that."_

"_I don't know," she said, louder this time. Only he wasn't paying much attention to what she was saying because it occurred to him that Sara – sitting on edible grass next to a chocolate river under and edible tree with a few edible bushes and flowers in the background – was looking fairly… edible… herself._

_And not in the cannibalistic sense, either. If pressed, Willy would have to admit that he didn't know exactly in what sense he meant. He had a vague idea, of course, he just… wasn't very sure how you went about… responding to the sudden realization that someone was extremely edible in a non-cannibalistic sense._

_He'd read something about this, he knew it. There was something he was supposed to say in this sort of situation, wasn't there? Something about her._

_Oh. Yes._

"_Was your daddy a thief? 'Cause he stole the stars from the skies and put them in your eyes."_

_He laughed awkwardly. Sara shot him an incredulous look._

"_What on earth are you talking about?"  
_"_You know, I'm not really sure."_

_She kept staring at him. He stared back. This was going absolutely nowhere, and in the meantime his body was feeling very strange and tingly and insistent and it was actually getting to be fairly uncomfortable and he knew there was something he was supposed to be doing besides saying that thing about stars. He looked away._

"_What's that thing you do, when you really like someone?"  
_"_What do you mean, exactly?"  
_"_It's…when you like them… people do it in books all the time… starts with a 'k'…"  
_"_Kissing?"_

_She clapped a hand over her mouth and flushed, but Willy was far too excited to notice. He snapped his fingers and sat straight up, looking back at her._

"_Yeah, that's right! Kissing! That thing you do with your mouth! Now I remember!"_

_Sara's hand slid from her mouth. _

"_And… why was that important?"_

_By way of an answer, he kissed her. And then he kissed her some more._

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Willy blushed bright red right up to his roots and almost crushed his velvet jacket. He'd kissed her! And he'd liked it, and they'd done a lot more then just kissing once they'd gotten back to his room… and she'd liked it, he guessed, though she'd hadn't smiled, exactly…

But didn't girls have cooties? He had been pretty close to her and he hadn't _seen_ any cooties, but you could you see cooties to begin with? And were cooties really that big a deal?

Of course they were! They were _cooties_.

But what were cooties, exactly?

They weren't anything, they just… were.

He was supposed to be grossed out! She was a girl! She had cooties, and he'd touched her and kissed her and done other stuff and it had actually made him feel… really good…

And she had smiled, almost. Not exactly, not the way he'd seen her smile before, but she'd looked happy. She'd looked happy because of him.

Maybe… (and here he began to wring the hem of his coat) …maybe she'd be happy to see him? And smile at him the way she had before, at Charlie?


	3. Screeching Halt

**A/Ns: Would like to thank all you lovely reviewers. I never expected to garner this kind of response, and I will endeavor to continue to entertain you all to the standards established in the previous chapters.  
Hopefully.**

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_I was spinning free, whoa  
__With a little sweet and simple numbing me  
__Tell me, what do I need  
__When words lose their meaning?  
__What a dizzy dance, whoa  
__But the sweetness will not be concerned with me_

- "Sweetness," Jimmy Eat World

Breakfast at the Bucket house had always been a casual thing. Before the factory, it had been because Mr. Bucket had to eat early and leave for his job, the old folks often slept in until noon, and the children had to go to school somewhere in the middle of this. Usually Mr. Bucket would wake up first in the cold bruise-colored predawn and make some coffee. He would leave just as Mrs. Bucket was waking up and kiss her good morning and goodbye as she poured a cup of tea and set to work washing the dishes from last night. This never took very long, and so she would sit and watch the sun rise before going inside to wake up the children and send them off to school with a bit of toast clutched in their hands and a warm hug. Eventually the grandparents would wake up – Grandpa Joe first, usually, and Grandma Josephine; then Grandpa George and last Grandma Georgina, though with her mind in the state it was, her waking state was little different from her sleeping one.

Since moving in to the factory, the routine had altered slightly. Now Mr. and Mrs. Bucket could sleep in, as Charlie had informed them very solemnly that he was quite old enough to wake himself up on time and make his own breakfast. The grandparents – with the exception of Grandpa Joe, who usually was up about the same time Charlie was – had not altered in the slightest, though perhaps they slept a bit later now. Charlie would leave for the day's work with Mr. Wonka, and Grandpa Joe would go out to "help" in the garden. In all honesty, the Oompa-Loompas never let him do any of the really important work, but it made him feel useful, which is a very important thing when you're old.

Sara had fit as neatly and naturally into the new routine as she had into the old, rising some time between Charlie and her parents and going out into the gardens (waving to Grandpa Joe and the Oompa-Loompa gardeners in passing) with a book. Therefore it came as a mild surprise to her parents to find her sitting quite serenely at the table, newspaper spread out in front of her.

"Good morning, mother, father."  
"Good morning, Sara."

Her face and voice were perfectly composed – almost a little too composed, but Sara was like that, sometimes. They had learned not to press her; their eldest daughter was a strange and secretive creature to them, and had been ever since she was crippled all those years ago.

"I thought I should probably tell you I'll be going out today. I think I've imposed on you for long enough – the Landons should be coming back from their holiday in a few weeks, and I'd like to live on my own in the meantime. I was going to go looking for an apartment today."  
"Well… that's fine, Sara, of course," Father said, puzzled. "But you're not imposing on us."

Sara ignored him.

"Thank you. I should be back in the late afternoon – I've been looking over the want ads, and I already see a few places that might suit me."

She folded the paper and stood, using the table to support herself as she took hold of her cane and tucked the folded want ads in her purse.

"Please tell Charlie where I've gone when he comes by for lunch, if he asks."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first apartment Sara visited, while beautiful and convenient, was far more expensive then the ad had led her to believe. The owner had not mentioned that certain utilities were not included in the rent cost; furthermore, it was located on the fifth floor and the elevator, a kind tenant informed her, was almost always out of order.  
The next one was more to her tastes, but the building did not seem very well cared for, and her prospective floormate did not fill her with confidence. She didn't like the way his eyes roved over her body, or the way his expression lit up with glee at the sight of her cane. She had encountered men like him before, who had assumed that crippled was the same as defenseless, and he gave off every sign of being a man who had never experienced a good stick of hardwood jammed between his legs.  
A third apartment was examined and dismissed, and then a fourth as the sun slowly climbed down towards the horizon. The fifth and final one did not seem very promising – a simple brownstone set in among other brownstones, it was located a not-inconvenient distance from the town center on a rather attractive street, but by then Sara had almost given up on finding an apartment and was contemplating the horrifying thought of having to avoid Charlie's mentor for the next few weeks.

The foyer of the townhouse was well-lit and clean, with low-key decorations and a purely inoffensive color scheme. The landlady's apartment was the only one on the first floor and Sara knocked, composing herself for another interview.  
When she opened the door, the landlady turned out to be a wizened, kind-looking old woman with great big eyes blinking owlishly behind catseye glasses. She peered at Sara, then croaked out:

"Eh? Who are you?"  
"My name is Sara Bucket, ma'm. I know that this is rather short notice, but could I possibly have a look at the room you have to let?"  
"Ah, come for the second floor, have you then? Alright, let me just get my keys…"

Sara followed the old landlady up to the second floor, where she unlocked the door and gestured for Sara to enter. She did, and gasped.  
The first room was small but comfortable and fully furnished, with a hardwood floor, a few tasteful carpets, and a cluster of chairs and a sofa around a fireplace. Bookshelves – filled with books! – covered the walls, with the exception of the one immediately to Sara's left, which held a window overlooking a small garden. A door set in the left corner of the right-hand wall led off to what the landlady told her was the kitchen, and another door in the opposite corner of the same wall led to the sole bedroom, which according to the landlady – Mrs. Pritt – came equipped with a full bath.

"It's fully furnished, you can do as you like with the trappings if you'd rather use your own. The books are yours, too. My sister used to live up here, until she passed, and she would have wanted them to go to someone who'd use them. You seem like a reader."  
"Mrs. Pritt – " Sara stuttered and tried again " – Mrs. Pritt, I am very sorry for wasting your time, but there must have been a misprint on your ad. I could not afford all of this."  
"No misprint. I don't need much to keep this old place going and as long as we've all got a roof over our heads, who cares?"  
"Really, I – "  
"You want it?"  
"Well – "  
"Come down to my office, we'll go over the paperwork."

Twenty minutes later, Sara found herself outside again, dazedly clutching the deed and keys to her new apartment.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Willy was puzzled. He hadn't seen Sara all day, which was admittedly a normal state of affairs as he spent so much time inventing and training Charlie, but he hadn't even seen her when he dropped Charlie off for lunch, and that was rather unusual. He'd asked one of the Oompa-Loompa gardeners, and _they_ said that Sara had left the factory early, which was also unusual to his way of thinking. Why would anyone want to leave? There wasn't a thing she could possibly want that wasn't either already there or could be ordered without every having to leave the gates.  
He definitely wasn't worried, though. Not at all. The odd feeling in his stomach was probably due to a bad batch of his latest experiment. Which was going rather splendidly, by the way, now that that nasty business with the purple polka dots and green tongues was sorted out.

It was when he saw Charlie home for dinner and she _still _wasn't there that he asked Mrs. Bucket.

"Sara? Oh, she's been looking for an apartment."

Willy's mind went blank and his face froze in a grin, as sometimes happened when he was confronted with something he had not expected.

"Apartment?"  
"Yes," said Grandpa George. "Can't say I blame her, she's getting far too big for that cubby in the back."  
"Dad – "  
"Well, it's true. She's a grown woman now, ought to have a place of her own."  
"I just hope she isn't too disappointed, the market's terrible from what I hear." Mrs. Bucket took her place at the table and spooned some potatoes out on her plate as she spoke, then began to pass the plate around. Willy didn't notice as it passed by him, as he was trying to absorb this new information.  
"If her room's too small, I have other rooms in the factory that she could use. Or I could build one."  
"I don't think it's that, Mr. Wonka."  
"But why would she want to leave? All her family's here."

That was Charlie, asking the most important question, as always. Willy beamed at him.

"Oh, I don't know, Charlie. Probably she just feels it's time she stopped living at home. She is nearly thirty."

The slanted door swung open and Sara stepped through, intent enough on closing the door without losing her grip on her cane and by extension her balance that she didn't notice Willy was there.

"I'm sorry, everyone – I lost track of time – I found a place, though, she says I can move in tonight – "

Sara turned from shutting the door, saw Willy, and froze.

"And… I was thinking maybe I should."

Willy tried to grin weakly at her. She wasn't looking at him – why wasn't she looking at him? It was very uncomfortable, being stared through as though he wasn't there, or even worse, as though he _was_ and she just… didn't want to see him…  
But that couldn't be it.  
Could it?  
She wasn't smiling.

"So," Sara continued. "As I'm not particularly hungry, I'll just go pack my things now."

She swept past the table – past him! – and into her room without even saying hello.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It didn't take long for Sara to pack. She owned very little – a few days worth of outfits, basic toiletries, some notebooks, and a few worn, loved books. It was sobering to realize that the sum total of her earthly possessions could fit into a medium-sized carpetbag, and at the same time reassuring. Years of extreme poverty had taught her the difference between what she needed and what she only wanted, and she would never be so attached to a place because of material goods that she couldn't pack up and leave whenever she needed.

Much as she was doing right now, in fact. At least nothing could ever tie her down. A cold comfort, all things considered. She had seen Charlie's face fall when she announced that she was leaving – the idea of hurting him had almost made her reconsider, then she had seen _him_ – hateful man! – sitting at the table and knew she couldn't stay. The easy thing to do, the right thing, was to tell her family, but how could she do that? That would be tantamount to asking Charlie to choose between her and Mr. Wonka and she could never hurt her little brother that way.

_Damn_ the man. What had possessed him? If he'd wanted a woman he could have gone out and found one. He was rich, and handsome – she couldn't deny that – if he put himself on the market they'd be lining up for blocks to get at him. Was using her just some sick game – a matter of convenience – she wasn't pretty, she knew that. She cultivated a plain and foreboding appearance specifically to deter and avoid men. Men were a distraction; sex was just a lot of pointless grappling.  
And the fact that he had looked like a kicked puppy when she refused to acknowledge him was completely irrelevant! It was all an act – everything he did was so calculated and insincere – no grown man could possibly be as innocent and well-meaning as he pretended to be, and she was the only one who could see it.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes and she focused on her breathing, forcing them back down until her throat was strained and sore with the effort of not crying. She had read a Chinese saying somewhere about swallowing bitterness – there was no better description for what she was doing. For what she had always done.

_That's quite enough self-pity, Sara Bucket. _

She stomped down on her impulse to cry one last time, just for good measure, stiffened her spine, picked up her bag, and walked out to say goodbye to her family. And if she was gripping the head of her cane just a little too tightly and tapping it against the floor just a little too hard, well – no one seemed to notice.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Willy Wonka paced the entrance hall of the factory, not entirely sure what he was doing. Sara hadn't smiled. He hadn't made her happy – it had all gone wrong – she didn't even want to look at him!  
She was leaving the factory because of him. And it had to be because of him. He was childish but he wasn't _stupid_. Hadn't he set up the perfect tests for his prospective heirs? Hadn't he invented non-melting ice cream? He _knew_ it was because of him.  
She was leaving.  
She couldn't leave!  
He wouldn't let her. He'd explain and she'd see and she'd let him try again – yes. He'd try again and he'd get the mixture right this time, or he'd find a different way. He couldn't just _fail_. That wasn't the way it worked; you kept trying until you got the result you wanted, or a different result that worked just as well. But he couldn't try again if she left!

He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed her striding past him and had to hurry to catch up with her.

"Sara?"  
"I have nothing to say to you."  
"Last night – I can explain that – I didn't get it right – "  
"_There is nothing to explain!_"

Sara whirled around and glared at him. He stepped back as she advanced on him, voice rising with every word.

"You drugged me, and you slept with me, and I am _leaving!_ The only reason I am _not_ going to go to the police _this second_ and have you brought in on charges of _rape_ – " and here Willy flinched as if struck " – is because that doing so would hurt Charlie and I would rather take a knife to my neck then do anything to hurt him. So count yourself _damn lucky_, Mr. Wonka. You _bastard._"  
"But… that's not what…"  
"_Get out of my sight!"_

Her skirt swirled around her legs as she turned and stalked towards the door again, so quickly he had no time to react.

"Sara… wait, I can explain… I didn't mean to… I can explain!"

The door slammed shut behind her.

"…I'm sorry?"


	4. Out of the Limelight

**A/Ns: Sorry this was so late. I was sick, and then things kept popping up faster then I could beat them down, and yeah. Here it is. Mea culpa. The next chapter will be along posthaste.**

**Also, the charming and talented Lady Yatexel did a rather lovely illustration for this chapter, which can be found here: www. deviantart. com/ deviation/ 21305807 /. Her gallery proper can be found at this address: ladyyatexel. deviantart. com /. Everyone, go tell her how wonderful she is. Remove the spaces to make the hyperlink valid, you know the drill.**

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_She wakes up in the morning, a pain in her jet-black head  
__Decaf coffee in her hands and a Marlboro Red  
__She drives down to the office in her Japanese car  
__With her radio blasting, she dreams of taking it too far  
__Today she'll pay the bills  
__She won't think about the thrills that pass away_

- "All-American Girl," Melissa Etheridge

Sara woke late her first morning in her new apartment, stretching and turning over to stare out the small window at the street. Late September sunshine poured through leaves already beginning to go brown and gold around the edges, and she smiled sleepily at the sight of a young woman chasing a little boy – her brother, possibly, or her charge – down the street. The boy was carrying a book that must have been the older girl's, judging from the way he was waving it at her while running backwards and laughing.

Charlie had never had the chance to tease her that way. By the time she was old enough to look after him she was long crippled…

The memory left a sour taste in her mouth and she frowned as she climbed out of bed, the serenity of the early morning shattered. Sara closed the curtains and went into the small bathroom to prepare for the day.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first order of business was buying groceries. There was a small shop only a block and a half away from her apartment house; as being crippled and car-less made her ability to shift large amounts of groceries long distances, this had been a major factor in her taking the apartment. Even so, she would only be able to carry a bag or two and would have to make at least a trip a day, something she had no particular problem with. It wasn't like she'd have anything else to do.  
The shop was terribly small, but it was clean and had the basics; Sara was a competent cook, and her apartment's kitchen was more then adequate. The proprietor was a short, rotund Mediterranean man who sat behind the cash register with an expression of dulled interest on his face. Sara paid for her groceries by cheque, and the man's face lit up slightly when he read her name.

"Bucket? Any relation to that boy?"

Sara paused.

"…No. No relation at all, I'm afraid."

It seemed best not to draw attention to herself.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A cold wind began to blow as she walked home, her groceries on one hand and she hurried along, head bowed and cane tapping a rough staccato beat against the pavement. A few leaves drifted past her, and not for the first time she wondered at how swiftly fall and winter set in to the city; it was almost as if the place couldn't wait to die.  
The warmth of the building came as a great relief and she took the steeps stairs up to her landing carefully, leaning heavily on her cane. She stopped to catch her breath before opening the door, then began the intricate juggling process of getting out her keys and finding the right one, only to drop the whole ring on the floor. Sara said a very rude word in French and began to kneel to pick them up.  
A hand, much swifter then her own, picked them upfor her and she straightened to find herself looking directly into a pair of soft blue eyes.

"Are these yours?"  
"Um… yes."

He smiled at her and handed them back. His hair was blonde – he was average-looking, with a kind smile.

"I'm Arthur Harrington – I live on the fourth floor. Are you the new tenant?"  
"Yes. Sara Bucket."  
"Pleased to meet you, Ms. Bucket. Can I help you with your things?"  
"Oh – yes, if you don't mind, that would be very helpful. Thank you."  
"No problem," he said, taking the bag from her. She opened the door without any trouble this time and took her groceries back.  
"Thank you, Mr. Harrington."  
"Call me Arthur."  
"…Very well. Arthur. And please, call me Sara."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Willy Wonka had no idea what to do. This was fairly unusual; there had, of course, been points in his life where he had been faced with such a question, but usually he had an answer within a few moments of thought. The situation he now found himself in was, however, one entirely beyond the scope of his experience.

He wanted Sara to come back. Specifically, he wanted Sara to come back and be happy to see him, and understand that he hadn't meant – had definitely not – done that thing she'd said he'd done. He hadn't. Well, maybe he had, but he hadn't meant to, and he'd been influenced by the drink just as she had and it never would have happened if he hadn't drunk it with her, so there!

He'd only wanted her to smile for him!

Everything had gone so dreadfully wrong…

There had to be a solution. There generally was, somewhere. That was one of the very few useful things his father had taught him, that you could generally find an answer to any question if you just looked hard enough, only the problem was that he had no idea where to look –

Willy came up short in front of a bookshelf and turned away to resume pacing.

Then he turned back.

_Of course!_

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first arrangement was delivered to Sara's apartment exactly a week after she'd moved out of the factory, almost to the hour. The flowers had no card, and when Sara demanded some hint of the sender's identity, the deliveryman just shrugged and said that the order was placed directly to the store, by telephone, and he didn't know any more then she did. Reluctantly, Sara took the flowers – azalea and purple heather – and found some water for them, putting them on the windowsill in her bedroom.

When all's said and done, they were rather pretty.

The next arrangement came a week later, just as the old one was beginning to wither. The azaleas were absent, replaced with honeysuckle, though the heather remained. A third came her third week in her apartment, then a fourth, and so on until November. Had Sara been paying attention, she would have noted that while there were slight differences in each bouquet, the meanings of the flowers used followed a common theme: admiration, affection, and concern for her welfare. When she was hired by the Landons in mid-October, they came accompanied by a spray of clover, which she dimly remembered were lucky flowers; that was all the note she took of their meaning.

In the second week of November, the pattern changed.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sara hurried up the stairs to her apartment, bunching her skirt up in the hand that gripped her cane so as not to trip over it. She's been held late by the Landons – they were wonderful people, but she sometimes got the feeling they existed in a completely different world then she did, one where crippled women without a car never had any problems getting home during rush hour.  
The deliveryman had already been and gone, as was evident by the slender vase left just to the right of her door. Sara said a word her parents would be shocked to hear her use. Whoever the mystery flower-sender was, they sent a vase with every bouquet; at the rate it was going she'd have more vases then glasses by New Years. The flowers this time were a deep purple hyacinth and a dark pink rose, the edges fading to red.

Next to the vase was a chocolate bar.

A Wonka chocolate bar.

Sara's breath caught. Whoever they were… they couldn't know._ Could they?_ There was no way –

She gathered up the flowers in one hand and gingerly picked up the chocolate with the other, carrying both into her apartment. The flowers she set down on the coffee table; the chocolate she carried with her groceries into the kitchen.

If she had looked out the window just then, she would have seen a very familiar figure in a velvet coat and top hat standing outside and craning his neck to see in her window. But she didn't.

The doorbell rang. Sara left off putting her groceries away, ignoring the chocolate bar, and went to answer it. Arthur from upstairs was standing there, grinning sheepishly.

"Ah. Sara. My mother visited today, and you know how mothers are always convinced you still need taking care of, no matter how old you are?"  
"I am familiar with the phenomenon, yes."

Arthur held up what must have been a year's supply of cookies.

"Would you mind helping me eat these?"

Sara looked at him carefully. It seemed odd to her that he would show up immediately after the flowers. And if she looked back over the past month or so, he had been an almost constant presence – not obtrusive, certainly, but always on the periphery.  
Whichstill didn't explain the chocolate.  
Hadn't she mentioned to him in passing that her little brother had been fond of them? Glossing over the larger truth of the matter, of course, in keeping with her policy of not drawing attention to herself, but she had mentioned it. And that her grandfather once worked in the famous factory.  
Arthur wasn't bad-looking, either.  
Sara smiled briefly.

"Of course. Please, come in"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Willy was able to see most of the kitchen from his position, but not the living room; therefore he missed the exchange between Sara and Arthur. He did see her lead him into the kitchen, and could hear them talking, as she'd left the window open a little bit to let in the night air. The small alley between townhouses where he stood was small but mostly clean, and thankfully lacking the usual strange, unidentifiable smells that tend to linger in alleys. The only light came from Sara's kitchen window and the pale glow of the streetlamp just outside the entrance; the lamplight served mostly to backlight the glass elevator, which he'd parked on the sidewalk. It was slightly less cold in the lee of the building then it was out on the street – at least here he was protected from the wind.

They didn't speak much at first, exchanging meaningless pleasantries about work and the weather while Sara set the small table for an impromptu and very, very late tea. Without quite noticing, Willy took his hat off and began playing with the brim as he watched. His neck was craned at just awkward enough an angle to be uncomfortable, but it wasn't nearly as discomforting as watching Sara with Arthur was. The urges he was getting with regard to the other man were very unlike him, especially the one that involved introducing him to a half-starved Vermicious Knid. Or possibly tying him to a tree in Loompaland and letting the whangdoodles get him.

As the kettle began to boil, Arthur noticed the Wonka bar, still lying meekly on the kitchen table.

"Oh, d'you like those?"

_That's a very stupid question. Everyone loves my chocolate. I would never ask such a stupid question._

Sara got up to deal with the kettle as she responded.

"Honestly? No. I've never been overly fond of sweets, unlike my brother. Do you want it?"  
"Not really. I haven't got the stomach for them either."  
"Oh well."

And in one smooth motion, Sara picked up the chocolate bar as she poured out their tea, turned around and set the kettle back on the stove, then dropped the bar into the trash.

Willy nearly crushed his hat as the blood drained from his face. He hadn't just seen that. Had he? He couldn't have. She didn't…?

She did. She had.

And now she was smiling! Admittedly not the smile he'd seen before, the one that made her light up, but it was definitely a smile. The blonde man had said something that probably wasn't even very witty and she was smiling because of it! And she was laughing a little! And now their hands were touching, probably by accident but he wasn't pulling away and neither was she –

Willy felt sick. And strangely achy in the chest region. Furthermore, his head was filled with bizarre thoughts, most of which involved storming into her apartment and committing acts of violence against that visibly extremely dull and unexciting and mundane blonde… person. Who wasn't even very good looking! At the same time, though, he also wanted to crawl into his room and never come out again, while an even stranger urge to take Sara back to the factory and simply never let her leave again was quickly suppressed.

Obviously his former strategy was not working.

Luckily, he was fairly sure he knew what to do. According to what he'd read, there was still a way to fix this…

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, Sara found a letter leaning against a vase holding a single yellow jonquil. Her admirer had never sent a card or note with the flowers before this, and though you'd never get her to admit it, Sara's hands trembled a little with excitement as she opened it.

_Please meet me at eight o' clock tomorrow evening._

The address give was that of a fairly exclusive restaurant in the city proper, noted for its ability to provide the diner – should they be able to afford it – with complete isolation in a private room while they dined. Menus were worked out in advance and the food was pre-served, or if multiple courses were to be used, brought up by dumbwaiters. The card was unsigned, but had a number which the sender indicated she was to give the maitre'd.

It seemed odd that Arthur would surround their first meeting with so much secrecy. Then again, maybe he wanted to try and keep her guessing until the last minute. Obviously he had no idea she'd already figured it out.

_I shall have to be appropriately shocked and surprised_.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Her initial impression of the restaurant was glitter. In stark contrast to the darkness outside – with the advent of winter, night crashed down earlier and heavier on the city every day – the interior of the restaurant shone and sparkled, light glinting off crystal and polished metal, stopping just short of overwhelming as it was absorbed by the rich carpeting and velvet hangings. Sara straightened her spine even more and gripped the handle of her cane. She would not be intimidated by the richness of her surroundings. Society's upper echelons could only exist because of people like her, people who worked day in and day out on their employers' behalf. She was the equal of any of them.

Still, she was glad that her sole piece of formal wear – a burgundy dress she had purchased on a whim (it was on sale) – did not seem completely out of place. It was true that most of the women her age chose to bear quite a bit of skin, but despite her comparatively high neckline and long sleeves, no one so much as glanced her way. The maitre'd who led her to the room number indicated on the card did so with perfect courtesy, and therefore she concluded that she was not too obviously an outsider.

She only had a few moments to admire the room – decorated in gentle, unobtrusive creams and beiges, with only a few splashes of blue here and there – before the door shut behind her and a nervous, slightly high-pitched voice greeted her.

"Um. Hi?"

The voice was not Arthur's. Indeed, it was the farthest thing from. She recognized it immediately – how could she not, when she kept hearing it in her dreams as she was forced to relive that night? The memories always faded in the morning, but the voice stayed with her…

_Mr. Wonka!_


	5. Just Smile Again

**A/Ns: Didn't this one come quickly? I didn't want to keep you waiting… or be fed to a cannibalistic Harry Potter look-a-like named Andrew.**

**Poor Wonka really gets it in the beginning of this chapter. Never anger a woman with a cane.**

**SpadesJade: Oh, Arthur is far from perfect for her. Is her nice and normal and comfortable and not at all inclined to threaten her carefully-maintained worldview? Sure. But can he make her truly smile? …I don't _think_ so.**

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Don't fade away, my brown-eyed girl  
__Come walk with me: I'll fill your heart with joy  
__But don't let them make you and break you  
__The world is filled with their broken, empty dreams  
__Silence is their only virtue  
__Locked away inside their silent screams_

- "Don't Fade Away," Dead Can Dance

Sara whirled and slammed the butt of her cane into his gut without so much as a thought. Willy Wonka doubled over and stumbled backwards as his tall satin hat fell off his head, clutching his stomach and wheezing. She advanced on him, eyes flashing as rage pulsed through her.

"_How dare you?_" she hissed through clenched teeth. "Did I not make it _perfectly _clear that I had no desire to see you or hear from you ever again? Are you hard of hearing, _sir_, or perhaps suffer from short-term memory loss? Then let me repeat myself – _I despise you, _and everything to do with you and have no desire to interact with you again. Ever. You lured me here under false pretenses, taking advantage of someone else's hard work in courting me – "  
Willy managed to get a word in edgewise, gasping for breath. She'd really hit him very hard.  
"I… sent… the flowers."  
"And now you lie to me!"  
" 'M not lying."

He finally managed to stand up, leaning heavily against the wall, and started talking at an incredibly fast pace, not entirely sure what he was saying – but he didn't want her to leave, not before he'd explained, and not while she hated him! Normally it wouldn't affect him but the idea of her hating him made all his insides turn to ice.

"I sent them, like the book said, I think I got the meanings right, didn't I? The clovers for luck and hyacinths mean I'm sorry, because I am, I'm really sorry, I never meant for it to happen the way it did, I didn't know what the drink was going to _do_…"

His voice got squeakier as he grew more agitated, beginning to pace. This caused him to draw nearer to Sara and she shrank back without his noticing; he was that lost in his own confused attempts to explain.

"…I just thought it would cheer you up and make you smile, I didn't know it would do what it did, I didn't know and I was just trying to make you smile for me the way you do for Charlie!"

The last part of his speech was almost a shout. It wasn't very loud by anyone's standards, but it was so unlike him that he came up short and couldn't say anymore. Not that there was anything left to say. She'd either believe him or not, and Willy realized, unsettlingly, that for the first time the odds were not in his favor.

Sara continued to stare at him.

"You expect me to believe that?"  
"…Yes?"

Completely at a loss for words, she slapped him. Quite hard.  
"You _monster_."  
"I am not a monster!"  
"What would you have me call you? You stand there, in your ridiculous suit and your silly haircut, boldfacedly lying and expecting me to buy into your childish _act _like everyone else in my family has – "  
"There's nothing wrong with my suit, I'm not lying, I don't know what you mean by an act, and _I do not have a silly haircut!_"  
"Yes, you do!"  
"Do not!"  
"Do _so!_ It matches your name!"  
"There's nothing wrong with my name, either!"  
"You are a manipulative, lying, vile little man and I want nothing to do with you!"  
"You don't even know me!"  
"I am _leaving._"  
"You can't leave!"  
"Why not?"  
"…because!"  
"What kind of answer is that?"  
"My kind of answer!"

Sara put her hand on the doorknob and turned it violently; but before she could jerk it open, a purple-gloved hand landed over hers.

"_Please_ don't go?"

And his voice was so different from their earlier exchange – soft and trembling slightly, almost terrified, like a child who knew they'd done something wrong and feared the punishment, no matter how venial the sin – that she couldn't stop herself from turning around and looking him straight in the eyes.  
In terms of accomplishing her immediate goal, this was a mistake.  
Because she didn't see what she thought she'd see there. She had anticipated a false gleam and merry twinkle, a thin veneer of sugar sweetness covering a cold, cynical nature as emotionless and calculating as any snake. It would fit with her past experiences.  
She didn't see that. What she saw was softness, all the way through – softness and a terrible confusion.

Her hand slid off the doorknob and she suddenly felt very, very tired.

"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Wonka, I think I need to sit down."

Sara half-stumbled towards a chair and Willy took her elbow, supporting her without fully realizing what he was doing. Leaning on him and her cane, she sat down heavily at the table, her cane coming to rest against the edge like a superfluous fifth leg. Willy let go of her and took a step back, vibrating with nerves. Sara took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself. When she spoke, her voice was weary and dulled with strain.

"If you please – from the beginning?"

He told her everything. From when he'd first seen her smile in the garden (tripping over his words and making grand gestures as he tried to describe the light he claimed to see) through his plan to make her smile and the unforeseen consequences. He even brushed lightly over the details of the process he'd used to alter the chocolate, wanting her to know how much thought he's put into it and how little planning he'd done. She heard everything and understood it, for the first time willing to believe that his childishness was something more then an act.

When he was done, she had only one question.

"_Why?_"  
"Because – "

He stopped, disoriented. She'd hit on the one thing he never thought about. He just _did_ things, and justified them after the fact.

"Because?"  
"Because – I don't know."

And then it was his turn to collapse in the chair across from her, interlacing his hands on the knob of his walking-stick and resting his chin there. He looked strange, so elegantly dressed and hunched over like an old man or petulant child.

"I don't _know_. But when you smiled… the way you smiled… I wish I had that. Not for something I made or did but for _me_…"

He straightened and looked across the table at her.

"No one's ever smiled just for me. Not like that. I want – could you let me try again?"

His voice was terribly small and unsure.

"Try again, Mr. Wonka?"

"I've been reading books, and I think I know how to do it the right way this time. I'm supposed to take you places, and give you things…"  
"Flowers, chocolates, promises you don't intend to keep?"

Sara quoted the cartoon without thinking, not realizing it was the first time she'd thought of childish things in twenty years.

"Only I'd keep them."  
"Would you, now?"  
"Well, yeah. Broken promises would make you sad, and sad people don't smile. _Everyone_ knows that. Besides, I have to get two out of three at least and you don't… like… c – … you won't eat – "

The words fell over themselves and got lost somewhere in his throat, at sometimes happened.

"Candy. No. I have never been fond of sweets."

Willy nodded miserably, slouching again. Sara looked away, around at the room. He'd gone through a great deal to arrange all of this. She had not spent two months in the factory without noticing how hard it was for him to speak to strangers, and to send her the flowers and set up the dinner he would have had to speak to many, outlining arrangements and menus…

All because he wanted to see her smile.

She could not believe in that. She couldn't believe in him – she didn't want to. It was impossible that he could be naïve enough to do all this and not know what it would appear to mean – but the proof of it was slumped with an air of defeat across the table from her, picking absently at the rapidly-cooling dinner for lack of anything else to do.

If nothing else, it would only be one more bad experience in a lifetime of rotten judgments and poor luck.

"Mr. Wonka."

He looked up.

"Perhaps it is my own fault, in that I always purchased the wrong kinds, or from the wrong makers. There are quite a few out there…"  
"…like Slugworth. He couldn't make a decent candy if a pack of hornswogglers were after him."  
_I have no idea what you're talking about_. "Yes, like Slugworth. It is entirely possible that, were I to try and learn to enjoy them at this stage in my life, I might not find them so unappealing."

She chose her words carefully. She knew – and knew he knew – that they were discussing something that went far deeper then candy. And if he didn't know… well. As said before, it wouldn't be the first time, nor likely the last.

"So, you'd be willing to try them again?"  
"I believe so."  
"I'll still keep the promises, though."  
"How terribly generous of you."  
"Well, I am awfully kind."

She thought for a moment the dryness in her tone had gone right over his head, until she saw the glint of humour in his eyes.

Sara thought she was beginning to understand.


	6. The Worlds Inside Our Heads

**A/Ns: Ah yes… the cute. It is, at long last, here. The chapters are coming rather quickly now, because it's more fun to write them this way then when they're on the outs… anyway. The author cannot be held responsible for any cavities that may come as a result of reading this chapter.  
Also, _Copenhagen?_ Best. Play. EVAR. At least of the last decade. Go see it. I command you.**

**Lum: …Sara's thirty years old, give or take a few months. I'm not sure what you mean by "act her age," exactly. She's an adult, and is behaving as one.**

**SpadesJades: I regret to inform you that your curiosity must remain unsated for the foreseeable future, as I have no intention of describing the exact events of The Night. I might do it as a laugh to show to my friends, but I will not post it publicly; however, should I decide to write it for my own personal amusement, you will receive a copy. Just don't hold your breath.**

**Tool of a Higher Power: …Okay, I bite. What made you shiver about her almost beating the crap out of him?**

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_When I get this feeling,  
__It's hard for me to come back down  
__And I know I could be  
__That everything you need  
__And I know this could be  
__A freefall back to me_

- "It's About You," Train

The audience rose to its feet as one entity as the three actors came out to take their final bows. The applause rebounded throughout the small theatre, roaring like thunder and Willy Wonka winced and covered his ears, stealing a glance at Sara. She was standing with the rest of them, albeit unsteadily due to not being able to clap and hold her cane at the same time, looking as if she'd just emerged from a trance and clapping until her hands stung. His heart lept a little when he realized that she was smiling – it wasn't _quite_ the smile he'd been looking for, but it was so very close. It still wasn't directed at him, though.  
But he was getting there.

This was the first major outing he'd been able to brave since the dinner two weeks ago. He had wanted to do thing the way the books said to, but he could only stand so much time in public, and no matter how carefully he ensured no one would see him, there was still the chance that someone would find out who he was and then the whole media circus would start up again. And there was the additional concern that this time Sara would be caught up in it, and he didn't want that. She was a very private person.

Though… if the media started hounding her, she'd have to come back to the factory. He rather liked that idea – except it would probably upset her.

In the interim, they'd written to each other. He was bad at talking over the phone; actually even worse then he was at speaking face-to-face, so they'd sent notes back and forth. Sometimes he would send flowers with the notes, but never more then that. The books said they didn't know each other well enough yet for him to send anything else.

This evening, though, he'd found that when he was with Sara it was somehow easier to be outside the factory. It still made him nervous to be so far away from the machines, and even more nervous to leave Charlie in charge (because while the boy was wonderfully gifted, he didn't like to think of what would happen if there was a real emergency while he was gone) – but somehow he was less nervous then he'd expected to be. Being with Sara seemed to calm him down.

He hadn't understood the play they'd seen – _Copenhagen_ – apparently, it was about these two men and a woman, who was married to one of them, and they'd met sometime during World War II and been colleagues before it and the atomic bomb was in there somewhere, but he couldn't figure out how it all connected. Normally he'd leave, but every time he glanced over at Sara she'd seemed completely enthralled, so he'd sighed and gone back to trying to figure it out. Now she turned to him while they waited for the theatre to empty so that they could leave without drawing attention to themselves, still smiling faintly. It faded as she studied him for a moment, looking for something – and then the searching expression was gone.

"Did you enjoy the play?"  
"Um. It was nice."  
"…you didn't understand a word of it, did you?"

Her voice was rich with amusement; her face softened into something that was almost, but not entirely, a smile. It was more like her mouth turned up just a little at the edges; still, with the soft lights of the theatre behind her, it seemed almost like she was glowing... and the way her hair was bound loosely on the back of her head was really very nice, with strands left to tumble down her neck…  
She looked oddly at him.

"Do I have something on my face?"  
"What? No."  
"Then what's wrong."  
"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. It was nice. I like spending time with you; that was nice. The rest isn't that important."  
"…I see. That's rather a compliment, Mr. Wonka. Thank you."  
"It's the truth…"

_He really does have marvelous eyes_, Sara couldn't help thinking. _Not exactly brown, but they can't be any other color…_ Though she could almost convince herself that they were a very dark purple of some shade; and they kept shifting. Sometimes there was nothing there, and then there would be a change and they'd deepen or sharpen – you never really knew…

Moving almost in unison, they broke off eye contact. Willy began to study the box decorations with great industry, while Sara simply stared at her hands, a light flush of color spreading across her pale skin.

"We should probably be going now. It's getting late."  
"Yeah… Um. Sara?"  
"Yes?"  
"Would you mind… um. What exactly was the play about?"

To his immense surprise, Sara laughed. It wasn't entrancingly bell-like or anything like that – it was more like a soft alto chuckle, gentle and engaging… _She should laugh more._

"Well, it's about two physicists who were good friends before World War II – they learned from each other, built off each other's discoveries, and respected each other very much…"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"…anyway. While that's the premise, I feel the actual story isn't about the physicists at all so much as our own limited sight. They say it quite clearly in the dialogue – you cannot see the space you inhabit. Each person can only filter events through their own prejudices, formed by their experiences and most importantly, their responses to those experiences; and as each person experiences different things and responds differently, no two stories are alike but all are true. Truth is nothing more then the places were individual perceptions overlap."  
"Do you think that's right?"

Sara frowned in thought.

"I honestly don't know. I would like to think there are some certainties and undeniable truths in life, but I can't offer any proofs that there are."  
"Oh."

The park the two were walking through was silent and dark, the trees bare of all but the last straggling leaves. The theatre loomed behind them, a solid stone monolith, and close-set streetlamps along the paved stone path plunged the area immediately beyond the walkway into darkness. Despite the limited visibility, Sara felt… safe. It was true that they were almost asking to be mugged or worse, but Mr. Wonka seemed not to even consider it a possibility and she was strangely reassured by his confident obliviousness. They were walking quite closely, but not touching; every time they came close, one or the other would ease away.

Willy had found himself drawn into her explanation of the play despite himself. She was very passionate about things like that, if the light flush across her skin and gesturing were any indication. He kept leaning in towards her, but he would always edge away at the last minute, afraid of something he couldn't name. Though he still wanted it, whatever it was… it was maddening, wanting and not-wanting at the same time. She paused, digging her cane into the stone, and turned to face him.

"Take you, for example. You don't see the world like anyone – surely you know that."

He had to nod.

"And yet, for you, what you see is what is. It's your truth. In your world, there is such a thing as a happily ever after, a fairytale – as magic and miracles."

She seemed to sigh heavily and looked away.

"You… believe. As does Charlie. You don't endlessly weigh the consequences of your actions, you just go ahead and do it because as you see it – in your truth – having good intentions and being a good person is enough. And somehow the world falls into like with _your _expectations… you have faith."

She walked a few steps away from him, back the way they'd came. He thought he saw her free arm – the one not holding her cane – wrap around her torso as she stared off into the distance and he got the distinct feeling that she wasn't talking to him anymore.

"I do not…"

He was equally sure she hadn't meant for him to hear that. Sara cleared her throat and turned back to him.

"As you have doubtless gathered," she said briskly, "I do not share the same decadent, happy-go-lucky view of the world. My own is so ingrained that if I tried to live life as you and Charlie do – always flitting about from one thing to the next, never thinking about how those around me would be affected and simply trusting all would work out in the end – I would fail, because that is not my truth."

He came up to her, purposefully going closer then he ever had before. Only a few inches separated them now… he wasn't sure why he was pushing her boundries, but he wanted to be close to her, just for the sake of being near her and also to identify whatever perfume she was wearing. Or maybe it was a lotion. He couldn't quite tell… whatever it was, it was sweet without being cloying but still held a sharp edge to it…  
She backed away a little, and he closed the distance unobtrusively. Determined not to look at her face – because he knew from prior experience that he'd just get lost in the lines of her features and the way tendrils of her hair had come loose and rested against her far-too-pale skin – his eyes fell to his hands, currently hanging uselessly and somewhat dully at his side; her one free hand was clenched in her skirt. Without thinking, he reached out with his left hand and unclenched it, intending to let go and then finding that he really wasn't inclined to. His eyes wandered back up to her face.

"I'm really sorry."  
"Whatever for?"  
"I don't know… but… you know, that thing I have – I seem to have an awful lot of it."

He was barely aware of what he was saying, as his thumb had developed a mind of its own and decided to brush over her knuckles and back of her hand repeatedly and even through his gloves he could feel her warmth and how soft the skin was…

"I certainly seem to have more then I could ever use, so maybe – I mean, if you want – I could probably find a way to give some to you?"

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, her hand tightening in his grip as though she was preparing to pull away. The something shifted – she relaxed and let her fingers curl around his hand, hesitantly.

"I… we'll see, Mr. Wonka."

He swayed in closer without even noticing, entranced by the way the lamplight played across her features. She was so close and normally he'd hate that but it didn't feel like an invasion at all when it was her…

Sara turned away.

"It's very late. We should be getting home."  
"Oh. Um. I guess it is."

They fell into step and began walking back towards the theatre. Willy had parked the elevator – his preferred, if highly noticeable and eccentric method of transportation – a few blocks away from it.

"You know," he ventured as emerged from the small park. "Maybe you shouldn't call me Mr. Wonka anymore. I don't call you Ms. Bucket."  
"Then what should I call you?"  
"Um, Willy?"  
"That's a ridiculous name for a grown man – or a child, for that matter. How about William?"  
"That's stuffy!"  
"Will?"  
"Isn't that a piece of paper you keep around to tell people what to do with your stuff after you die?"  
"Well, I'm certainly not calling you Willy."  
"It's a perfectly good name!"

They continued to bicker lightheartedly in this vein all the way to the elevator, and most of the way to Sara's apartment.

They didn't stop holding hands until they parted at her front door.


	7. Grown Ups

**A/Ns: Whew. This one took forever to write… no small part due to the fact that is was a very emotional chapter for both of them. May not seem that way at first but thin about Sara and Willy's personalities – they're not prone to emotionality. Ooog. I'm just glad I got it written… and the next chapter will have something to make up for it, I promise.  
****It's not as fluffy as the last one. I sorry. It also has Mr. Wonka acting in a way some of you might construe as OOC, but hopefully taking into account the way he has doubtless changed since embarking on his relationship with Sara it will make sense, hein? Which is more then can be said for that last sentence.  
As for Sara not calling Willy, well, Willy... come on. You really think she would? XD**

**Aljinon: She has a cane because she is crippled, for reasons explain in this chapter. **

**To all my loyal reviewers: you've stuck with me thus far, and Iheart you all with great… heart-ing. Affection. That's the word.**

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_She asked me to stay and I stole her room  
__She asked for my love and I gave her a dangerous mind  
__Now she's stupid in the street and she can't socialize  
__But I love the little girl and I'll love her 'till the day she dies  
__She began to wail, jealousy's scream, waiting at the lights, know what I mean?  
__Scary monsters and super creeps keep me running; running scared_

- "Scary Monsters (And Super Creeps)," David Bowie

It had been a month and a half since Sara and Willy – whom she now alternated between calling William and Will, depending on how outraged she was pretending to be – had started to see each other. They still went out very rarely, as Willy's fear of public spaces could never be quite conquered, but they had seen each other – she'd visit the factory to see her family and him, and once or twice he had braved the streets of the city to come see her. They had an unspoken agreement not to mention whatever was happening between them to the rest of her family. Whatever it was… it was too new, too fragile and unsure to be subjected to scrutiny. It was changing them both, whether they knew it or not… Willy found himself holding off testing new candies on himself or Oompa-Loompas until he was 98 sure they were right, as opposed to his usual standard of 85. Sara, without noticing, had begun to indulge herself a bit more – buying bits of feminine nonsense she didn't really need or a book she could just as easily have borrowed from the library. If either of them noticed the changes and traced them back to that night at the theatre, neither ever said so out loud.

Willy was feeling quite pleased with himself as he fairly skipped up the stairs to Sara's apartment. It'd taken forever to get her surprise ready, not to mention all the trouble he went through getting the information he needed from Mr. and Mrs. Bucket without letting them know what he was up to; it would still be worth it to see the look on her face. He couldn't wait! _This_ would definitely get a real smile out of her, though he had to say that she had been nearly-smiling around him more often then not lately.

He knocked on her door and waited, shifting impatiently. Eventually he gave into his jitteriness and beat out a staccato rhythm on the helpless door until it opened under his knuckles and he had to pull back sharply to avoid hitting Sara right on the nose. _That_ would certainly be an unfortunate start to things. She stood in the doorway with one eyebrow raised, spine stiff and straight as ever. He grinned.

"Will. I wasn't expecting you."  
"Of course not. If you were expecting me, it wouldn't be a surprise!"  
"I see. And I suppose I'm expected to leave off whatever I'm doing and come with you?"  
"Well… yeah!"

A small near-smile played across her face, as though she was trying not to laugh.

"You are, without a doubt, the most gleefully inconsiderate man alive."  
"…huh?"  
"Nevermind. Let me just get my coat."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sara stifled a resigned sigh when she saw the glass elevator parked out front. He was inexplicably enamored of what she considered to be possibly the most precarious and dangerous form of transportation ever invented by man – including hydrogen blimps. She'd never liked heights, and Will's haphazard approach to navigation did nothing to calm her nerves.

"May I ask where you're taking me?"  
"No."  
"As I thought."

Still. For all his strangeness, he was a good man and she enjoyed his company. Anything more than that… well, perhaps she was rather… fond… of him – but that was irrelevant, because she was the least romantic figure on earth and a dreamer like Will was the last person who'd fall for her.

She entered the elevator and made sure to stand near one of the few portions of the wall not covered in buttons. Because of her crippled leg, even the slightest of sharp turns – and he made many – was enough to put her off balance. A cane only did so much, and she needed a wall to hold onto.  
Will's jittery excitement was catching, especially in an enclosed space like the elevator, and she grinned a little – a grin which faded as soon as the elevator took off, traveling at what _couldn't _be safe speeds through thins air…

Sara gulped and closed her eyes. Maybe it would be easier if she didn't look.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was an abandoned on the outskirts of the city, just a block or so away from where the Bucket's slanted house used to be. Grass, vines, and moss had covered most of the ruins, turning the former industrial complex into a great lumbering pile of green. Trees has taken root inside the building and pressed upwards, breaking through the roof after many years' growth. It was not as resplendently green as it was in the spring and summer; still, even the bare branches, dying grass and yellowing moss held a certain stark beauty against the cold concrete. There was a creek running near it; streaks of industrial waste could be seen floating idly along the top of the languid waters. The glass elevator seemed from afar like just another glittering piece of glass in the sunlight; the only indication it was anything else were the two figures emerging from it, one of them holding out his hand to help the second out.

Mr. and Mrs. Bucket had told Willy that before Sara had been crippled and lost most of her mobility, this had been the first place anyone looked for her. If you asked Mr. Wonka's honest opinion, he couldn't see why she liked the place. It was terribly dreary and depressing. Still… he had it on good authority that today was likely to be the last good day before winter set in fully and he's wanted to make something of it. It was a strange urge to have, but considering it was for Sara… it seemed right, that was all.

He watched her anxiously for a reaction. She looked around, recognition dawning on her face.

"The old shoe factory… I used to come here when I still lived with my family. Why are we here?"

She turned to face him and he put up a single finger, warding off her questions. The grin on his face was eager and boyish.

"Watch this."

He reached back into the elevator and picked up a medium-sized cloth bundle Sara hadn't noticed before. Gesturing at her to stay by the elevator, he strode a few yards away, set is down, and then scampered back in a rather undignified manner.

Behind him, the parcel began to expand and fold outward. Sara stared at it, shock written in her eyes. She had known Will was capable of near-miracles, but she had never seen his particular brand of magic. He kept glancing quickly between her and his latest invention, his grin impossibly wide, looking as though he was about to burst with pride.

Now long poles were unfolding and propping up the cloth that had spread along the ground, pushing it up like a canopy to reveal an elegant table, two chairs, and a light lunch.

For the first time in her life, Sara gaped.

"How on earth…?"  
"A magician never reveals his secrets."  
"You're not a magician."  
"I'm a chocolatier, it's almost the same thing. C'mon, let's go have lunch."

Willy tugged on her elbow, gently, and she let herself be guided towards the pavilion, still in a daze. Feeling greatly daring, he rested a hand lightly on her waist as they moved forward, inexpressibly pleased with himself. She moved away from him when they came to the table proper and he let her go, not without a small twinge of regret. He liked having her near him. She was… well, she was Sara.  
She ran a hand wonderingly over the back of the chair.

"You know, I never really believe Charlie when he'd talk about all the wonderful things you could do. I suppose I should have…"

He chose to ignore her comment. He had a feeling it wasn't something you were supposed to respond to in the first place. Instead he talked about innocuous things while they ate, letting his own chatter fill the silence. Sara seemed preoccupied by something… he hoped he hadn't made a mistake in coming here. That would be awful.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sara listened absently to Will's voice, not paying attention to the words. This place held far too many memories for her. Not that she faulted him for bringing her here; how could he know? And the whole thing with the tent hadn't helped either. Sometimes she wondered if he knew how much a genius he was – how unusual his talents and capabilities were.

_Likely he doesn't care, even if he does know._

Before she could really settle herself, lunch was over and he was looking expectantly at her. She managed a weak sort of smile and stood, clutching her cane like a lifeline.

"Would you mind coming with me to take a look at the creek? There's something I'd like to see."

He wouldn't. He fell into step next to her and she allowed his hand to creep around and rest hesitantly on her waist as it had before. His touch caused a kind of electrical tingling in her spine. It wasn't unpleasant or uncomfortable; she simply wasn't accustomed to it. It had been a long time since she'd found a man attractive.  
She could admit she was attracted to him. He was very handsome, even if he didn't seem to know it, and while he was exasperatingly childish at times he was also prone to committing random acts of romance and courtesy without seeming to notice. If it was calculated on his part, it was calculated very well.

The creek had worn a deep groove in the soil over the years, the grass growing to overhang its banks and touch the surface. Sara knelt, with effort, and looked into the water as best she could. It was hard to see below the surface with the sun behind the clouds…  
The clouds moved and Sara saw the figures of hundreds of tiny little minnows darting against the sandy creek-bottom.

She smiled.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Willy had been bemused by Sara's sudden desire to go see the creek. It didn't seem very special to him; it was just a creek, and not a very clean one either. Still, he didn't pass up a chance to put his arm around her again, even though he didn't quite dare touch her fully.  
He withdrew when she knelt, squatting beside her (he didn't want to get his pants dirty) and looking quizzically at the stream. Seeing nothing, he looked at her instead. She was staring intently at the water and he was about to ask her why…

And then she smiled.

_Truly_ smiled, the way he'd seen her do all those weeks ago.

Willy had forgotten how beautiful it really was. His mouth went dry and any thoughts he might have had flew right out of his head. There were no words for it; there never would be. Everything about her became soft and fine and in that moment he wanted nothing so much as to have her turn that smile to him, to have it be _for_ him, because she was with him.

"When I used to come here, there was no life in this creek."

He almost missed what she said. As it was, the only thing to come out was a strangled, questioning noise. She didn't seem to notice.

"The water was always too polluted for anything to live in it. I had heard that they were working to improve the quality of groundwater in the city; I'm glad they were telling the truth."

Willy didn't really know how to respond to that.

"You… did you come here a lot?"  
"Almost every day. It was quiet, and peaceful, and something that was mine – something I didn't have to share with anyone. Until my leg… but you don't want to hear about that."  
"I would, actually. Um. If you want to tell me."

Her smile faded and he felt a queer squeezing ache in his chest at its loss. She turned her steady gaze on him.

"Why?"

His eyes shifted and danced away from hers, looking anywhere but at her. When he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper.

"I think – I think it might help me understand why you… don't smile so much."

Her look turned serious.

"My leg is the least of the reasons why I… don't smile so much, as you say."

He swallowed.

"Could you tell me anyway? All of them, I mean. I'd like to know…"

She closed her eyes briefly.

"Are you _sure_? You might not want to hear some of it; it's all rather painful."  
"…yes?"

Sara sighed and settled herself on the ground, holding tightly to her cane to steady herself.

"Then you'd better sit down. It's a long story."

He sat. She began to speak in a flat monotone, frighteningly flat compared to her usual expressive tone, staring past the creek at something he couldn't see.

"I was an active child, according to mother and my own memories. Always running off and getting into mischief and generally shaving several years off my parents' lives on a regular basis. An unholy terror… I was too young to understand why we couldn't have the things other children did and I never thought it was fair that I had to wear hand-me-downs while other children got new clothing, or that my shoes never quite fit…

One day when I was ten, mother had had enough of me and sent me out to play. The other children… they were always daring me to do things, and I would do them. Because we were poor, you see, so that was the only way I could have any kind of status.

There used to be a very tall tree in the neighborhood. Not a safe one, either – the branches were thin and weak, and spaced too far apart for climbing… anyway. That day, they dared me to climb to the top of the tree. I took it… and I fell. Broke my leg. Most of them scattered; one of them knew where I lived and told father what had happened. He came and carried me home and set my bones – he didn't want to go to a doctor in case we couldn't afford it. All this I found out later. All I remember is the blinding pain.

Father is a wonderful man, very good with his hands, very talented. But he's not a doctor. He didn't set my bones properly; hence my useless leg. Infection set in, and a fever… all in all, I was laid up for about ten days, completely delirious. Father had to go, and mother had to take care of all the grandparents and the house, and me, and there was so very little money….  
The fever broke eventually and I came out of my delirium. Mother didn't know; if she had known, I never would have found out…  
When I came out, I was very weak. I didn't have the energy to speak or do more then flutter my eyes. So I heard… I heard her, sitting at my bedside and crying, and she whispered that she wished she had never had children.

I… it's not her fault. She had no idea I could hear her and she would be horrified if she knew. It's a good thing, really, that I heard, because I never knew I had been such trouble – that I had been a burden on her, enough that she wished…"

Sara broke off and took a deep breath. Willy could see tears prickling at the corner of her eyes, but couldn't seem to move or think. What she was describing didn't seem like Mrs. Bucket at all – Mrs. Bucket couldn't have _meant_ it – then again, his father probably hadn't meant it when he'd said… well…

_A tall man all in white, face lined with worry and harshness.  
_"_If you do go, I won't be here when you come back."_

That hadn't stopped it from hurting. Or being true.

"Sara…"  
"I'm sorry. My emotions got the better of me for a second."

She retreated again, a still automaton, as she continued.

"Obviously, after hearing that, I did not even try to go back to my old ways. I cutoff relations with my old friends and threw myself headlong into my schoolwork and helping out at home. I found that as my grades improved, I could make money by tutoring the other students and… helping… them with their homework. All the money I earned went to mother and father. And I never really played again – I saw no real point in it, with my leg. I worked, I studied, and I earned a small income for my family, and that was enough.

I excelled at school due to my study habits and rarely had less then an A in any given class. I didn't have to worry about gym, either, because of my leg… I'm just glad Charlie hadn't been born yet. I never had much of a social life. It's not that people were unfriendly, I just never had the time. And besides… mother and father needed the money I could earn, and I needed to grades to get into college on scholarship. I could never ask _them_ to put me through; it would be a burden.

Eventually I did get accepted into a good school on full scholarship. Again, I worked constantly, earning money to send home and studying to keep my grades up. I graduated with honors and applied for a masters program.

The requirements for the masters program were very strict. I had come down with a slight cold and, well – I pushed myself a little too far. There was a paper that I had to turn in by a certain time in order to qualify. I stayed up all night finishing it, because I'd worked all day before.  
The next few days, I was terribly ill. The dormitories were not well-heated, I'd been sick to begin with and then I'd stayed up all night… I was ill all week and missed the deadline. They offered to let me apply again next year, but I couldn't wait that long. So I got my job with the Bostwicks and… well… the rest isn't worth telling.

I am a failure. When I was young, I was a burden. When I finally had a chance to make something of myself and find a job that could help me support my family, I screwed _myself_ over and lost it. So… that is why I don't smile. I have nothing, really, to smile about."

Willy had sat in silence throughout the rest of the story. When she finished, it took him a few minutes to fully process what she had said. Especially the last part. When he did, his reaction came as a surprise to both of them.  
Gut wrenching pain seized him all of a sudden as the _real_ reason why she never smiled dawned on him. There was no way she could be responsible for her family's poverty… she had no reason to hate herself… and yet, she did.

All appearances to the contrary, you see, Mr. Wonka was really quite a perceptive man, fully capable of understanding the human psych and reading between the lines. He simply preferred not to… because when you understood things like this, it ended up hurting.

He reached out to her. She took his hand, thinking he was maybe going to hold hers for a while. He thought so too, at the time… but when her hand touched his and ended up pulling her against him and hugging her fiercely. It was mostly because he didn't have the words; anything he could have said would have sounded ridiculous, meaningless platitudes.  
Willy shifted a little to make it more comfortable for both of them. They were both kneeling now, though he made sure with a thoughtless kind of consideration that he bore the brunt of her weight. Her arms were crushed against his chest and his were wrapped tightly around her waist and back, his face pressed to the side of hers. Time stopped for them.  
He felt her shoulders heave and tightened his grip on her as a few warm tears fell around his collar, rolling down his skin. He shuddered a little at the feel of them and was seized with a sudden urge to take his gloves off and touch her for real, without any barriers; to wipe her eyes and make her smile again.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know it would make you c-c-c – sad."  
"It's fine, Will," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "This is been a long time in coming."

She took a few deep breaths to steady herself and pulled away.

"I'll be fine now."

He let her go, reaching out as they parted to tuck an errant strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

"Are you sure? 'Cause I don't mind being cried on or anything. I've got other suits, you know."

She smiled weakly. He thought he saw a bit of the glow he remembered – faded and dim but there – and froze.

"It's fine. I'm fine. Everything's fine. I… should probably go home now, I need to grade the Landon children's homework."  
"Okay. I mean, if you're sure."  
"Yes. Yes, I am."

Her earlier sorrow was already fading and being replaced by her strict control. She was retreating back into propriety and aloofness when all he wanted was to hold her and not let go, to fix things so that she would never cry again… it wasn't right for her to carry around that much hurt. _He'd_ had to, for years and years before he saw his father again…  
She was already standing and heading towards the elevator. He got to his feet and followed her.


	8. The Taste of Candy

**A/Ns: Yes, it's finally here... but hopefully worth the wait. You'll see.**

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_So I pretended to have wings for my arms and took off in the air  
__I flew to places which the clouds never see, too close to the deserts of sand\  
__Where a thousand mirages, the shepherds of lies  
__Forced me to land and take a disguise  
__I would welcome a horse's kick to send me back  
__If I could find a horse not made of sand  
__If this desert's all there'll ever be then tell me what becomes of me?  
__A fall of rain?  
__That must have been another of your dreams._

- "Mad Man Mood," Genesis

The ride back was silent. Sara didn't look at him once, looking straight ahead without really seeing. She knew Willy kept glancing at her, worry creasing his smooth features, but she ignored him. She'd had no right to speak as she had – she had been caught off-guard by the entire situation, otherwise she never would have shared that much. Not even her family knew what she had heard when she was ten, or how it had affected her. For twenty years she'd kept it a secret and now she'd blurted it out to the first person to ask!

Relief spread through her body as her building came into view and she unconsciously took a step forward as the elevator lowered itself to the ground. This was a mistake – all it took was a small jolt when she was already unbalanced and she felt one of the more terrifying sensations for a cripple; that of all her weight shifting onto her bad leg, the leg crumbling beneath her as she fell, unable to stop herself –

Two warm arms grabbed her and pulled her up, in and close. She blinked upwards and found herself staring straight into Willy's eyes and leaning heavily on him; her cane had gone flying. She was pressed up against him in what was really a very… intimate… manner.

His eyes searched her face. Sara's breath caught and she gripped his upper arms, trying to brace herself but unable to stop leaning in towards him. She thought dimly that he must have no idea how devastatingly handsome he was, or perhaps far too much of an idea…

She didn't realize that her lips had parted slightly as she tipped her face up to stare at him.

Still, it didn't come as much of a surprise when he kissed her.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Willy hadn't thought when he saw Sara fall – he'd just reacted, catching her and drawing her up and against him before one thought became another. He hadn't been prepared for how easily she'd fit against him, but it was certainly a pleasant surprise. He tightened his grip, wanting to do _something_ to alleviate the heavy ache that had become a low-key if permanent companion in her presence. He didn't know what…

He did know.

She grabbed his upper arms with her smaller hands in an almost bruising grip before relaxing. He barely noticed – he was too busy studying her face, trying to memorize the moment, trying to read in her eyes if she would _mind_ him doing what he really, really wanted to do, coming so close on the heels of her confession. He had a dim idea that she might prefer to be alone…

But he _wanted_ to!

Putting desire to action without further thought, he bent his head and kissed her. It was sweet – sweeter than anything, except maybe the first candy he'd ever tasted. The sensation was something akin to that; the discovery of an entirely new flavor, something never before dreamed of but with subtleties he could cheerfully spend the rest of his life exploring. His memories of the drugged night were as fogged as hers – this was the first time he'd kissed Sara Bucket of his own free will.  
Her hands slid up and around his neck as he changed the angle of the kiss slightly, daring to deepen it just a little. She was soft beneath his hands as they dropped down to hold her waist, slid down onto her hips. The cloth of her skirt was suddenly a barrier; he was aware of the skin beneath it in a way he was unused to. He didn't want it to be there – he didn't want them to be where they were – he wanted them to be somewhere else, where he could do… something… there were no words for it he was willing to use, they were all too coarse and the straightforward.

Sara had almost pulled back when he kissed her. It was the proper thing to do – the _sensible_ thing to do. But sensible was a word she tended to forget the meaning of whenever he was near her; he was the antithesis of _sensible_. She let her arms twine around his neck and leaned in as he deepened the kiss, responding without knowing what she was doing, arcing up into him and _aching_…  
His hands slid down to her waist, still supporting her, but now she knew he was touching her simply to be touching her, his fingers brushing tentatively over her curves. She wanted to lower her arms all of a sudden, to explore the alien, straight planes of a man's body – his body – the lines she could feel pressed against her. He was so maddeningly _gentle_… as thought he was afraid she would break.

The kiss broke naturally, though they kept their faces still close enough to touch. She was leaning against him now, and it occurred to Willy that he would cheerfully bear her weight forever it meant he could kiss her whenever he wanted. She looked down and then quickly away, afraid to look at his pale skin. The more she saw, the harder it would be to leave.

"I should probably go inside now…"

She wanted to stay. Willy brought one hand up and ran a gloved finger along her cheek.

"I wish…"  
"What is it?"  
"Nothing. I just – if I asked – would you come back to the factory? Please?"  
"Why?"  
"I don't know. I… I don't like it when you're not around." _I want you with me_.

Sara didn't say anything. She wasn't sure how to respond; this thing was entirely too new, too alien. If she did go back, what then? They couldn't hide what was happening forever. Should they even be hiding it now? How did you reveal something like this?

"I'll think about it. Maybe someday."

It was the best she could offer.

He made a sound that was almost like a sigh and pressed his lips briefly to her cheek. She shivered at the light contact, and he was reluctant to draw away and let her go; he wanted _so badly_ for her to stay with him.

Of course, he'd wanted her to smile for him with an equal kind of desperation, and look how that had turned out. Willy may not have been the most perceptive man alive when it came to social matters, but he did learn quickly.

"Sure. I mean. Yeah. That's fine. Um. Good night, I guess."  
"Good night."

Sara stepped out of the elevator, fighting back the sudden impulse to turn back and tell him yes, _yes_, she would go back, she would stay in the factory, she would learn to smile for him.

She brushed her fingers across her lips.

He had been so unfailingly gentle in his kiss!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Willy shifted his weight onto his heels as he watched Sara walk away. He thought that maybe she would change her mind – turn around and come back with him. He wouldn't even let her bother packing, it would be easy to come back and get what she needed – he'd just take her away, back to the factory, where he could control things and fix it so that nothing would ever make her sad again – so that she'd always smile for him.

She didn't turn around. After a while he set the elevator in motion again, not turning away until her apartment house was no more then a speck in the distance blurring in with all the other houses on that block. By then the factory was coming into a view and that gave him something to focus on; anything to keep his mind from wandering back to the way she'd felt pressed up against him. Not that it had been unpleasant in any way. But it was tempting to simply think about her, and it, and her and him together and do nothing else while there were candies to be made, an apprentice to train, and the inevitable small disasters to manage.

He still hadn't managed to place her scent.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sara felt giddy as she unlocked the front door of the townhouse. It was a rare feeling for her; she wasn't even sure what she was feeling really was giddiness, as she was going off some very dim memories. But… he had kissed her! He had kissed her and she had kissed him and it had been wonderful.  
A soft, shy smile crossed her lips. She had found that she often smiled when she thought of Willy; there was so much of him to smile about. His awkwardness, his caring, the way he lit up when he'd discovered something that pleased her – his devotion to her family – the way his hands would tentatively brush against her, drawing back after the briefest of touches. The way he had of throwing himself headfirst into any project that came to mind… he seemed incapable of moderation and in anyone else it would have drive her insane but not with him. For Willy Wonka to do something moderately – now that _would_ be a crime.

_And what can you offer him, Sara?_

Her expression darkened. That was the biggest question for her. She was not by nature a passionate person; he was. And it was true that he had a way of drawing it out of her, and it was equally true that he seemed completely devoted… but so did most passionate people. It was entirely likely that she would end up serving as a kind of stepping-stone for him to the world outside – he couldn't possibly maintain his interest in someone as mousy and plain as her for long. Not that she suspected any maliciousness on his part but she was very old, in her fashion, and this was how things worked for people like her. She had seen it many times before.

There was nothing to do for now but enjoy the ride, and try to brace for the inevitable impact of the end.

She was lost enough in her thoughts that she didn't notice Arthur standing on the first flight of stairs until he reached an arm out to grab her, almost causing her to overbalance. Sara squeaked in a most undignified way as she fought for secure footing, reaching across his torso and grabbing the handrail.

"Arthur – what are you doing back so early?"  
"Early? Sara, it's past six."  
"Is it now?"

And that was another thing – time had a strange way of slipping by in large chunks when she was with Willy. Whole hours would be lost and she'd have no idea where they went.

"Yes – Sara – who was that man?"  
"What man?"

Sara stepped down onto the stair below where Arthur was standing, looking up at him. Something was different about him – a tension she hadn't seen before in her easygoing upstairs neighbor radiated from his body.

"The man you were just with. Who… kissed you."

He spat the words out like poison and Sara's mind went blank as she realized what was going on.

"That was the man who had been sending me those flowers – remember? We have been seeing each other for some time now."  
"How long?"  
"A month and a half, _not_ that it's any of your business."

Sara drew herself up, the last remnants of the gleeful fog the kiss had caused wiped form her mind by the conflict she could sense building. Arthur tensed further, mulling over her statement.

"I thought you liked _me_," he said finally, almost whining it out. _Like a child who's not gotten the treat he wanted_, Sara thought briefly.  
"And whatever did I do to give you that impression?"  
"You invited me in – and we talked – and – "  
"And did it occur to you that I was only being friendly?"  
"You were sending off the right signals!"  
"What does that have to do with anything? You hesitated – he did not. It's really that simple!"  
"But I _like_ you!"  
"_So does he!_ And I might add that he is a good deal better at expressing it than you!"

Not giving him a chance to respond, Sara stalked around him and up the stairs to her landing. She ignored the fact that he was staring after her, unlocked her door, and locked it again the minute she was inside before stumbling over to sink down into one of her chairs.

_This is the last thing I need…_


	9. Seperation Anxiety

**A/Ns: Hi, it's me again, after a long long time away... and I have only bad news. I am afraid this fic is going to have to go on a bit of a hiatus. It's not that I've lost the desire to finish it - far from it, it _will_ be finished - but The Real World is eating my soul and my muse has decided to run off a play Jedi. Yes, I will be starting a Star Wars fic. No, it is not the reason I am abandoning this one. Blame it on CatCF being out of theatres... barring Murphy's Law, probably the next time I'll really have the energy and the inspiration for this is when I get the DVD in November. But as I preordered it from I'll be getting it the very day it comes out!  
I'm really sorry to do this to you, especially since we're so close to the end, but I can't force myself to write. It comes out all wrong. But this _will_****be finished before the new year. I promise.  
Maybe I'll upload the final chapter on the stroke of midnight or something.  
Without further ado... le fluff!**

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_My mind's distracted and diffused  
__My thoughts are many miles away  
__They lie with you when you're asleep  
__And kiss you when you start your day  
__Now the song I was writing is left undone  
__I don't know why I spend my time  
__Writing songs I can't believe  
__With words that tear and strain to write_

- "Kathy's Song," Simon & Garfunkel

The cold sun of a winter evening was coming through the windows of Willy Wonka's room in the factory, lying tentatively over the two people in the bed, on top of the covers. Sara was lying on her back, propped up by pillows – her bad leg had been giving her trouble with the changing weather and this was the most comfortable position for her. Willy was resting his head on her stomach, a little below her breasts, his eyes closed as he listened to her breathe. One of his hands (ungloved, but only for her – only ever for her) was cramped between their bodies, but this didn't matter so much because the other was settled gently on her abdomen, covering one of Sara's hands; her other hand was playing with his hair, her scent was all around him, and they probably weren't going to be disturbed for a good few hours.

Is it any wonder he was almost purring?

In the weeks that had passed since their first kiss, Willy had discovered that he quite enjoyed kissing Sara. She seemed to enjoy being kissed, as well; and there was a great deal of her to kiss, come to think of it. He was pretty sure there were some parts of her that he _hadn't_ kissed, a horrible travesty which he would gladly rectify if she would let him; unfortunately, there were certain areas that were still out-of-bounds.

He'd fix that, too, eventually.

Willy closed his eyes, enjoying the knowledge that she was with him, on _his _bed, in _his_ factory. It was rare that they could find time alone during her habitual weekend visits to her family – they'd only managed it this time by subterfuge. Her family thought he was showing her around the factory and to be perfectly honest, he had – just enough to satisfy any questions her family might have.

He did plan to show Sara the whole factory someday, but not for some time. Not until he was sure she'd stay.

He'd show her everyting, if she would stay. He couldn't give it to her – that would be ridiculous, it all belonged to Charlie anyway and she wouldn't make a good chocolatier and besides, she would never agree to anything that would involve hurting her little brother even if he'd offered. Which he wouldn't have. But he would give her everything else it was within his power to give, arrange her world so that nothing ever hurt her or made her sad; show her magic and wonderful things…

He let himself drift off into a fantasy that this was just one evening like many others. That she lived with him – that there was no urge to hide from her family out of fear of their reactions. Running the most successful candy business in the world could be very stressful. Was very stressful, now that he also had an heir to train. Sara made all that seem… less important somehow. All of the worries and the problems were still there, but it was like they belonged to someone else for a while. As long as he was with her…

Funny. A year ago – another lifetime, almost – he would have thought that was a distraction. Before he understood the point of family, of friends…

_Of… that word_.

He couldn't even bring himself to think it. So he made it part of his fantasy that he had already told her, and that she had told him, and they would live happily ever after. Together in the factory, with her family.

Sara was smiling softly without realizing it as she ran her fingers through Willy's hair. He really was inexcusably vain – imagine devoting a whole room to making haircare products! Still… he was a good man, for all of it.

_A good man_.

Her hand stilled. She should probably tell him now, while he was relaxed…

Willy shifted a little, aware something was wrong.

"Sara?"

She shivered a little at the sleepy hum in his voice. It had an odd effect on her – his voice when they were together and alone was different from his normal one. Lower, for one thing, and more focused… she was drifting.

"Will, I have something I need to tell you."  
"What is it?"

With obvious reluctance, he disentangled himself and moved around the kneel facing her. She shifted herself so she was sitting a bit higher up on the bed.

"Will – the Landons are going to New York for a week, and taking their children – "  
"So you can spend more time here?"

Sara could see the excitement in him bubbling over and quickly pressed the tips of her fingers to his lips, shutting him off.

"No. They're taking me – they don't want the children to fall too far behind."

He deflated.

"For a _week_?"  
"The way you say it, you'd think I'd said it was a year."  
"It might as well be!"

Willy glared at her as if it was all her fault. She raised an eyebrow. He let himself fall forward next to her and pressed his face into her shoulder.

"Can't you tell them you're sick? Or that someone else is sick?"  
"That would be lying."  
"But otherwise you'll be going _away,_" he whined. "It's a special case!"  
"We've been apart before – I don't live here, remember?"  
_I'm working on that._ "But this is different. I mean – you were still close. New York is so far away…"  
"It's only a week." _And it will give me time to understand everything that's happened…_

Willy, once he made up his mind about something, moved very quickly. In only three months, she had gone from despising him to almost… well, to caring deeply for him. It was too much, too soon, and it was all too easy to become lost in the fairy tale. She needed time away; time to think, and how could she tell him that? Doubt, fear, insecurity – they were things he had no experience with.  
He shifted until he was lying on top of her and rested his head on her chest, the top of his head brushing her chin.

"I'll miss you."  
"And I'll miss you. But I have to go – it's my job. I do need one, you know."  
"You wouldn't if you came back to live in the factory."  
"Will… we've discussed this before…"  
"I know, I know…"

He raised his head and scooted upwards a little, capturing her mouth before the discussion could go any further. It was blatantly manipulative of him; almost cheating in a way, but not really because he really did like kissing her an awful lot and she seemed to like it as much as he did…

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few hours later, it was time for Sara to leave. She had stayed for dinner with her family (and only had to elbow Willy once for doing highly inappropriate things with his hands to her under the table). They had been dutifully informed of her impending absence. Well-wishes ensued along with requests for postcards and frequent communication: Willy did as well, making it sound as though he was only joining in on what he presumed to be a "family thing" in one of his more subtle moments. Postcards and letters were promised, and then Willy excused himself to go check up on a few things brewing in the Inventing Room; Sara left a little while later, after a round of hugs and so forth.

It was not entirely a surprise when she was grabbed immediately upon leaving the Chocolate Room and pulled up against a warm, solid, decidedly male body.

"Wanted to say goodbye," Willy muttered, wrapping his arms around her.  
"You just did…" she said breathlessly.

He didn't bother responding; instead he brought his lips down on hers. Hard. He was far more forceful and demanding then he'd ever been; she lost a good few seconds to confusion before she could respond, bringing her arms up and around his back to clutch his shoulders and press closer against him. He bore the brunt of her weight now; if he had been a little bit stronger, he would be lifting her off the ground. The sensation was dizzying… being this close, this… not controlled exactly… this _possessed_ by another person. And he was possessive, in a quiet sort of way. There were certain things in the world that were _his_ – the factory, his recipes, Charlie, the Buckets (herself now as well, Sara supposed) – and damaging them or trying to take them away would devastate him – and later, lead to creative acts of revenge. The newspapers had never gotten their hands on the stories of the interesting personal humiliations and near-tragedies the candymakers who had stolen from him had suffered after he'd closed the factory.

The kiss broke off due to a mutual need for air and Willy slowly loosened his hold on her, resting his forehead against hers.

"I'm going to miss you. I mean, really miss you. Are you sure you have to go?"  
"Yes. I'm quite sure. I'll miss you as well…"

One of his hands had started playing with the tassel of her scarf.

"Hey – Sara – can I keep this?"  
"My scarf?"  
"Yeah. I'll give you one of mine – but I don't have anything of yours, really, and…"

He trailed off, not sure how to say what he wanted to say. It wasn't as if he thought he'd forget her – how could he? But he knew the scarf would smell like her, and he'd always been a highly sensory person; it was what made him so much better than all the other candymakers. He could pick out subtle differences in taste and texture and scent that no one else had even guessed existed. And scent was the most evocative sense; if he had something that smelled like her, it would be the closest he could get to actually having her there.

Sara took off her scarf.

"I suppose you can have it… here."

He took it and draped it around his own neck, looking through his pockets.

"I know I have one of mine here. I keep it for emergencies."  
"Emergencies?"  
"Well, you never know. I might get stuck somewhere cold, or develop a sore throat, or suddenly be transported to Siberia."  
"I see."

He found it, finally, in one of the inner pockets, and gave it to her. She wrapped it around her neck in preparation for the cold outside and shivered a little. His smell was all over it – chocolate and something underneath it, something clean and fresh and male…

Willy hugged her close and kissed her again, more gently then the last time. She let him, but didn't respond. Sara knew from past experience that if she responded to his goodbye kisses the way she wanted to, goodbyes would end up taking for too much time and become in serious danger of never happening.

"I'm not going to be able to see you for a whole week… you'll write, right?"  
"Every day. I promise."  
"_Good._"

And with that he let her go, reluctantly, and stood watching as she walked out of the factory. Before going out the door, she turned and waved at him, shyly. He lifted a hand and wiggled his fingers, feeling his heart plummet.

How was he going to survive the next week?

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One way or another, he made it through the week. Mostly he kept himself busy and pointedly ignored the comments the Oompa-Loompas made behind his back about pining lovers. (It was impossible to keep secrets from them, so he'd just gone and told them about Sara; it turned out they had known from the beginning). Charlie seemed to assume his mentor was just going through one of his occasional manic phases, and didn't notice how forced it was.

It seemed next Sunday would never come, but eventually it was Saturday night. Sara had phoned to say that her plane would be arriving tomorrow. Everyone had noticed how Mr. Wonka had perked up at the news, but no one made any note of it. It was fairly obvious that he preferred having the family near him. Still, he was more gregarious Saturday night then he had been all week; but any suspicions they might have had were swiftly quelled by remembering Sara's basic personality. She was far too sensible to attract someone like him; besides, he's never shown any interest in either sex.

Sunday came at last. Sara's plane was coming in early in the morning, early enough that she had instructed everyone not to bother coming to meet her at the airport. She would come to the factory around lunchtime.

Fifteen minutes to noon found Willy standing in the entrance hall, shifting impatiently from one foot to another and staring at the door as though willing it to open.

Five minutes passed and he didn't move.

Five more minutes passed and he began to pace.

At a little past noon, the door finally opened.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sara felt more at peace with herself then she had in twenty years as she entered the factory. Time away had been _exactly_ what she'd needed; it had given her time to think and examine her feelings; time to plan, and go over the nuances of everything that had happened since that night.  
Somewhere between the Museum of Natural History and the Statue of Liberty, she had come to the realization that she was in love with Willy Wonka. He was exasperating, demanding, incorrigible, and completely irresponsible… and she loved him. If she looked back, she had probably begun to love him the night of the play, when he had so innocently offered to give her some of his ability to believe, to have faith in a happy ending…

The realization hadn't come easily. It wasn't as though she wanted to be in love with him. Loving him – loving in general would be dangerous. It would involve leaving herself vulnerable to someone else.

She wasn't even sure she could tell him.

He had been waiting for her, and hurried towards her as she entered, his long legs eating up the distance between them. She could not move as quickly because of her cane but he more than made up for her disability, soon catching her up in a bear hug and kissing her fiercely. She responded without any hesitation, running her free hand up his chest and around his neck.

"Missed you," he said when the kiss broke, not breaking their embrace. She sighed and rested against him, the top of her head just brushing his chin and he shifted to bear her weight, compensating for her bad balance without thinking.

"I missed you, too."

There was a new note in her voice, but he dismissed it fairly quickly. She was just glad to be home, he was sure. Except now she was pulling away slightly and casting her eyes down, which… might not be very good.

"I… I did some thinking while I was away."

His stomach did an interesting kind of twist.

"About what?"  
"I was thinking…" she took a breath. "I'm not sure how to say this. But, I think… I think maybe it's time we told the family – my family. About us. You know…"

She gestured absently, indicating them, the space between them, the whole confusing wonderful mix that was _them_ as a unit. Willy's stomach untwisted and then promptly twisted itself up again.

"What if they don't… you know, like it?"

Sara raised her chin a little.

"Well, they'll just have to live with it, won't they?"


	10. Breach of Contract

**A/N's: I'm back! With angst. Beware! Also, there's only two chapters to go in this. We approacheth the end. _Finally._**

* * *

_No commotion, no screaming brakes  
Most of it's over before I awake  
From the ceiling, my coffee cup drips  
While out my window, the horizon does flips  
The worst part was hitting the ground -  
Not the feeling so much as the sound  
Can't help but wonder if all this is real  
Cause tonight is the night I fell asleep at the wheel_

_- "Tonight Is The Night I Fell Asleep At The Wheel," Barenaked Ladies_

"Mother?"

Mrs. Bucket looked up. Sara took a deep breath. Willy squeezed her hand and stood a little closer. Mr. Bucket also looked up, and frowned. Mr. Wonka was no physically affectionate as a rule.

"Um. Actually, everyone… there's something we need to tell you."

She had to pause there, to breathe. The words were coming easily – too easily – she felt on the verge of hysteria. For all her glib words, her family's acceptance of this was critical. If they didn't approve of the pairing…  
She breathed deeply and spoke without allowing herself to think about what she was saying.

"For some time now, Mr. Wonka – Will – and I have been… seeing each other. In – more than socially, I mean. We… thought it was time you knew."

You could hear a pin drop. Mrs. Bucket let the plates she had been setting out almost drop on the table; if they had been more than a few inches above the wood, they would have broken. Mr. Bucket slowly folded his newspaper. The grandparents just stared, and Charlie looked puzzled.

"What do you mean?" he said, finally.

Sara took a deep breath.

"It means, Charlie… that we've been going out. Dating."

There. It was said.

The rest of the family was still frozen. Sara felt the world tilt for a second, her nerves getting the best of her. Again, only Charlie reacted.

"So… does that mean Mr. Wonka's your boyfriend?"

Sarah and Willy looked at each other. He shrugged. She looked back at Charlie.

"I suppose it does."  
"Well, that just makes him even more part of the family, doesn't it?"

Before Sara could respond, her mother spoke up.

"Dear… are you… well, have you thought this through?"  
"Yes, mother, I have."  
"It's only – well, no offense to you, Mr. Wonka, but you don't seem quite…"  
"Compatible."

That was Mr. Bucket.

"You're a very sensible girl, Sara, and Mr. Wonka is frankly, well…"  
"Flighty."

_That_ was Grandpa George.

"He's got his head in the air half the time, and you – "  
"You've always been very grounded, dear."

Grandma Josephine.

"I remember back when you were in high school. You were always studying, never had any time for boys or parties. We'd always thought that if you settled down, it would be with someone a bit more…"  
"Grounded."

Mrs. Bucket again. Curiously, Grandpa Joe had remained silent throughout the entire exchange.

"I know all of that," Sara said, somewhat weakly. "It doesn't change anything…"  
"But dear…"  
"Mother, really. I'm old enough to make my own choices."  
"We just don't want you to be unhappy – "  
"She's _not_ going to be unhappy!"

The family turned to stare at Mr. Wonka. He looked slightly abashed at his uncharacteristic outburst – it wasn't in his nature to snap at people – but soldiered onward.

"Just because she's always been a certain way doesn't mean she's going to be that way forever. Maybe she just _likes_ me – I mean, I like her, a lot, so why can't she like me back?"  
"Mr. Wonka… it's got nothing to do with you," Mr. Bucket ventured. "It's only that this is so out-of-character for Sara…"  
"You don't even know her!"

Sara's eyes widened and she tried to speak, to cut off what she knew was coming –

"She's spent her entire life never doing anything fun or interesting because she didn't want to be a burden on anyone, because of… something she heard when she was sick, after she broke her leg! That's the only reason you all think she's sensible and grounded and all of it. Because she never let herself be anything else! And she thinks she's a failure because she ended up not getting into that graduate program, even though she's not, but I can't convince her because she's spent her whole life beating up on herself! And that's not fair, because she's smart and nice and beautiful and I l – really, really like her, so all of you just _back off!_"

They stared at him. He sort of shrank into himself.

"It's just… well, I don't see how it's any of your business," he finished, lamely. Slowly, the family's stares shifted over to Sara, who had let go of Willy's hand in her shock and was standing, mortified, her free hand limp at her side, leaning more heavily than usual on her cane.

It was Mrs. Bucket who broke the silence.

"Sara… is this true?"  
"I… it's… sort of. But it's not that bad, really, I… it was my choice…"

Her voice was weak. Mrs. Bucket let out a kind of moan and sat down heavily.

"When you were sick… what you heard… was it…?"

Sara looked quietly at her mother, her expression the serene one that accompanies the realization that a situation has spun completely out of control.

"Yes. It was… when you said you… wished you'd never…"

She couldn't finish the sentence, and perhaps that was best, because tears were already starting to run down her mother's face. It was Charlie, characteristically, who went up to Mr. Wonka and said what needed to be said with his usual artless honesty.

"I think maybe you should wait outside for a little while."

* * *

Willy was miserable. He had only been miserable a few times before – when his father left, when he closed the factory, in the aftermath of the Golden Tickets – but he recognized the feeling. It was like having a soaking-wet towel dropped on you from a great height; being weighed down by something so heavy you couldn't possibly carry it.

He had gone far enough away so that he could hear their voices, but not make out the individual words. It had gone like this – murmurs, shouts, crying, a little more shouting, murmurs, and now almost total silence. But no one had come out yet, and he wasn't about to go back in.

Footsteps on the grass behind him made him lift his head from his arms and turn to look at the person who sat down beside him. It was Sara. He wanted to hold her, to have her tell him that everything was alright, that he hadn't messed up too badly – but somehow he knew that wasn't the case.

For a time, they were silent. And then Sara spoke.

"Do you realize what you did?"

Her voice was quiet, and soft, but he still flinched at it.

"Um. Maybe?"  
"That's hardly an answer."  
"I… I know it was a secret, but – I just – the way they were talking to you – it wasn't fair."  
"Of course it wasn't. I… I'm grateful you defended me, Will, but what you did… there was a reason I never told them that. Now mother and father think they did something horribly wrong, and they never did. It was my choice, all of it. You knew that."  
_No, it wasn't,_ he wanted to say. But he didn't have the words to express how it wasn't, and it was quite possible he was wrong. He did tend to be, about these things.  
"You knew what I told you was a secret."  
"…yes."  
"And you told them anyway."  
"I didn't know what else to do. I wasn't thinking…"  
"That's exactly it. You _never_ think, do you?" He voice was still quiet and even, and somehow that was worse than having her yell at him. "You just barge ahead and assume everything will work out in the end. But what if it _doesn't?_ What do you do then?"

She sighed.

"Everything seemed so simple when I came back. Now… I'm not sure anymore, Will. I think… Well, I need some more time to think. Time away from the factory."

_Away from you,_ she was really saying, and at that moment he felt something snap in his chest.

"I guess…" he said, in a very small voice. "If that's what you need."  
"It is."

She stood and began to walk away. He panicked.

"Sara!"

She stopped and turned.

"Yes?"  
"I… I'm sorry."

She smiled at him, soft and sad.

"I know." _But that might not be enough._

So for the second time, she left. He stayed there for a long time, watching the waterfall from a distance.

But he didn't cry. Because he was Willy Wonka, and he never cried.


	11. Never Again

**A/Ns: Oh my sweet suffering Yes, I know this is late. Too late. I broke my promise. But darlin's, if you knew the kind of month I've been having... first I bust up my jaw, then I bust up my thumb, then I find out my jaw is _permanently_ busted because apparently the discs in the joint have been semi-dislocated since birth, which means I'll have to be careful my entire life, and just... argh. Bad month. Bad, stressful month. On the plus side, only one more fluffy and not-at-all-hard-to-write chapter left.**

**Please review? I've never begged before, but I feel in need of positive reinforcement right now.**

* * *

_I thought that I heard you laughing  
I thought that I heard you sing  
I think I thought I saw you try  
__But that was just a dream  
__Just a dream, just a dream  
__Dreaming_

- "Losing My Religion," R.E.M.

The first two days or so were tolerable. After all, there was still a chance that she'd realize she was being silly and come back, right?

The next two days were worse. He kept lapsing into silence and stillness, looking vaguely off in the distance at nothing in particular, wishing he could go to her, instead of waiting… but then, there was how she had reacted the first time he'd tried that. Willy Wonka was not a fool.

The fifth day was the worst. He kept running across little reminders of her – he couldn't even go _near_ anything that smelled of vanilla… because vanilla was her scent, vanilla and, he had finally worked out, a hint of eucalyptus. That was the sharpness in it.

On the sixth day, he went into his room and didn't come out again. Charlie tried to speak to him through the door, but after a single mild request that he go away, got no answer.

On the seventh day, Charlie decided he had had enough.

* * *

Mr. and Mrs. Bucket would no doubt be shocked to find that their young son was walking the streets of the city alone. True, he had walked to and from school on his own, but that was different. That was accepted. He was, they would agree, far too young and inexperienced to actually wander purposelessly through the labyrinth of brownstones.

This was why Mr. Wonka had shown him a more secret door. A chocolatier, he had explained, was essentially a kind of artist, and as such needed real-life experience to draw on. Mr. Wonka had had plenty of that once he went into isolation, but Charlie did not. Therefore it was in Charlie's best interest to spend quite a bit of his time simply seeing what he could see.

It was true that he was not entirely sure where Sara's apartment was. However, he had the general idea, and was quite prepared to ring doorbells until he found her. This entire thing (he would have said had he possessed the kind of personality that would allow him to say it) was really getting very ridiculous.

* * *

Sara looked at the crumpled piece of tissue in her hand, blinking back the tears that still threatened to fall. In a sudden, vicious gesture, she balled it in her fist and threw it across the room, where it bounced off the edge of the garbage can and rolled to a stop next to the leg of her desk.

She couldn't seem to stop crying, and it was getting to be downright irritating. The first thing she had done once she got home that horrible night was lock his scarf away, but that hadn't stopped her from taking it out, again and again, and remembering… and every time she remembered, she would cry.

Damn him!

Everything had seemed so simple in New York. The revelation itself had been unexpected –

_Standing on the Empire State Building wind whipping salty-cold through her hair and biting right down to the bone, the children standing around her. Such an amazing view… the day was clear as glass, and they could see for miles…  
__Will's scarf around her neck – his scent suddenly enveloping her – and then the abrupt pang of longing. She wanted him to be there with her, seeing this amazing thing, breathing the pure winter air.  
__She wanted him with her._

– but that was apparently the way it worked. And then every second had become a long wait until she could see him, and find a way to tell him…

Then he'd had to go and _ruin_ it all with his infernal lack of social graces!

There were some secrets that should never be told, not out of shame or guilt but simply because it did no one any good to know the truth. What he had let out… that she knew what her mother had said, that one dark night when she was pushed beyond her limit… that she knew that was her burden to carry, and no one else's. She had been wrong even to put it on him; if she hadn't told him, he could never have told them and everything would still be alright…

How had he managed to become to much a part of her that she physically ached at his absence? And here she had always prided herself on her independence!

The doorbell rang. Sara wiped furiously at her eyes and got off the couch, hoping she didn't appear too out of sorts.

* * *

Charlie sat down to rest for a moment on the stoop of the next house. The last house, really. If she wasn't here, then he really didn't know where she was, and he'd have to find some way to wheedle her address from mom and dad.

He watched absently as a tall, sturdily-built blonde man climbed the steps, balancing a huge bouquet. It looked almost like a flowershop had exploded. Maybe he was having a dinner party and going to put them in different vases.

It was certainly the only use Charlie could think of for the enormous thing.

* * *

Sara jerked backwards at the giant… thing… huge explosion of extremely bright flowers that was thrust in her face as soon as she opened the door. Once she had determined that it was not, in fact, a hideous mutated plant monster out for revenge against the fleshies who had killed and displayed the bodies of its floral brethren, she managed to peer around it and saw…

Arthur.

_Of course_. _Just what I needed right now._

"For you," he mumbled.  
"Um," she said, racking her brain for a response. "They're very. Um. Colorful."  
"Mind if I come in?"  
"Actually, yes. I'm rather busy at the moment, you see – "  
"What does he have that I don't?"  
"What does – who?"  
"That guy in the purple suit. What makes him better than me?"  
_Well, for one thing, he has taste.  
_"Arthur, this is really not the time. To be honest, it never will be the time."  
"Why not?"  
"Because I'm simply not interested."  
"I _thought_ you were."  
"You thought wrong. And if you did a little more of it, you would note that what you thought does not in any way entitle you to any kind of privilege. Good day!"

And with that, she shut the door in his face.

* * *

Charlie blinked as the man who had been carrying the huge bunch of flowers stomped up the stairs, suddenly angrier than he had been when first carrying them into the building. Obviously he had missed something.

Sara had mentioned that her apartment was on the second floor. There was only one apartment there, so he went and rang the doorbell. It opened surprisingly quickly.

"Arthur, I told you – Charlie?"  
"Hi, Sis."  
"What on earth are you doing here?"

No point beating around the bush.

"Mr. Wonka's locked himself in his room and he isn't coming out. You need to come back."  
"Charlie…"  
"I don't want to hear it," he said with surprising sharpness, and Sara realized how much he'd grown. "He needs you. You shouldn't have just run off like this. It's not nice, and it's not right."

She watched as he shifted unconsciously into a firmer stance, legs planted wide apart and hands clasped behind his back. She saw, in that moment – the way he clenched his jaw, the determination in his eyes – the man her little brother would become.

She went. What else could she do?

* * *

The factory did not look different. The difference was more in its feel – it seemed to be responding to its creator's apparent despondence. Sara could not quite bring herself to believe that he really was as devastated over this as Charlie was making him out to be.

The walls seemed to whisper as she followed her slim younger brother; one Oompa Loompa had already paused to look at her. They had seen no more of the strange little men, but she knew, somehow, that the entire population already knew and had made of it what they would.

There was an aura of sorrow, of something cherished lost, swirling in a vortex around the rather ridiculously simple door Sara knew opened into Will's room. It was, as Charlie had said, closed and locked.

Sara draped both hands over her cane, holding it in front of her and leaning on it like a strange wooden shield, or a support against what was to come. Whatever that was.

She thought for a moment that Charlie would announce her, would call through the door to the recalcitrant chocolatier, but no; again she had underestimated his subtlety. There was a certain pattern of knocking the Oompa Loompas used to indicate that Willy Wonka's presence was needed, one he never ignored. And for all the despair he might very well be feeling, he would not desert his factory and his life's work.

So he opened the door, saw Sara, and would have closed it again were it not for Charlie's foot being in the way. He looked down. Charlie looked up. They shared a moment of unspoken communication – _why is she here/you can't hide forever_ – before Will opened the door and stood to one side. Sara entered, back prickling with his stare, and heard the door shut behind her. Her mind flew back to so many weeks ago –

_a restaurant room painted soothing colors flowers sent and a terrified voice behind her sounding like he just swallowed helium_

– and she was seized with a longing that almost made her double over in its intensity. She _wanted_ to be back at the beginning, to try and make sense of it; she had had no _time_ to sit down and think things through, to analyze and quantify and calculate the potential risks and benefits, not time to do anything but –

_be herself for once in her life_

– get swept away in adolescent silliness she –

_had never had the chance to experience_

– had long since outgrown.

Hadn't she?

He would not speak, it seemed, so she spoke first.

"Charlie tells me you've decided not to come out of your room."  
"That's right."

His voice was unnaturally even and she wanted to look over her shoulder, to see if his eyes were as strained as his voice. She resisted.

"You really can't. You have responsibilities, you know."  
"I know."  
"Well? You can't lie around feeling sorry for yourself forever. It – " and then there came a light touch on her shoulder, no more than the first flurry of snowfall, two bared fingers against her throat and the rest of the hand on her blouse, pressed against her pulse suddenly beating rabbitfast.

She tried to choke out the words his touch had swallowed.

"It probably – wouldn't have worked – anyway."

To her horror and confusion, she felt tears form in the corners of her eyes and tilted her head back slightly to try and tip them back into her eyes, where they could never be seen or heard. The hand on her shoulder – his hand – moved slowly up her neck, over her jaw, and touched the outer corner of her left eye.

"You're crying."  
"It – doesn't matter."  
"Yes, it does. You're crying, but you're trying not to."  
"It's not seemly."  
"Why?"  
"Because – it's not."

Silence. And then –

"But you've cried in front of me before."  
"That was… different."  
"How?"  
"It just was."  
"…can it be like that again, then? I would like that…"

His damned _voice_, so wistful and tinged with hurt he couldn't just come out and _express _–

She tore away from him with a cry.

"How can you be so damn _calm_ about this? As if it's _nothing?_ All I've done since the beginning is push you away and you keep coming _back_, with your smile and your patience and the _ridiculous_ haircut – "  
"Hey!"

And she realized with a jolt that she had reached the beginning again. Here she was, telling him why she couldn't stand him, while he objected to her opinion of his hairstyle, of all things…

Except this time she _knew_ she loved him.

She didn't want to love him.

There was a chair near his dresser. Sara went to it and sat down, her bad leg suddenly aching. He followed and sat on the ground near her feet, looking up at her without a trace of self-consciousness.

"I was angry at first, you know."

She looked down at him, startled by the conviction and sense of revelation in his voice. He continued, looking away from her.

"I mean, I was _really_ angry for a while. It just seemed so stupid, how every time something happened you'd blame it on me and use it as an excuse to go away – but the I started thinking, and I thought – maybe there's a reason, and I wasn't so angry any more once I figured out what that was."

"And what is it?"

She surprised herself with her own serenity.

"You're scared. Really scared, though I don't know why, because I'm not _that _scary, am I? Except I don't think it's me you're scared of; I think it's something else, only I don't have a name for it. Except – remember when we went to see that play? And I offered to give you some of… the thing that makes me believe in happy endings, and everything turning out all right? I think that's what you're afraid of."  
"Don't be silly."  
"I don't think I've ever been less silly in my life. Except maybe when I had to close the factory."

He leaned his bare head against her leg, making sure it was her good one, and when he spoke again his face was muffled by her skirt.

"But it's okay that you're afraid. I remember I was afraid during the Golden Ticket search, when all those brats started getting my tickets. I thought I wouldn't be able to find the right kid. And then I found Charlie, and I think I was even more scared, because now that I had him he wasn't exactly everything I expected and I wasn't sure what to do with him, and when he wouldn't go without his family I just left him, which in hindsight was a stupid thing to do, but I did it because I was afraid of him. 'Cause it seemed like a good idea at the time, but when it's actually all there in front of you it's like jumping off the high diving board for the first time, only you're blindfolded so you can't see if there's water in the pool or not. And then you go and jump anyway, only some people don't, because they don't trust that someone filled up the pool."  
"I'm not sure I understand."  
"What I'm saying is, I guess, that I know you probably don't trust me because I don't think you trust _anyone_, but I did fill the pool, really, and you're not going to get hurt if you jump. And also that I l – lo – l – l – l – l – "

He couldn't seem to choke out the words and Sara couldn't let her mind think of what he might be trying to say.

"L – loveyou," he finally blurted out, slurring the words together. Then he drew away from her and hid his face in his hands.

For a long, terrible moment, there was only silence and the feeling like before a storm breaks.

"You…" Sara said, finally, trying to find the words but losing them as soon as they surfaced, only glimmering in her mind like fish in cloudy water.

"Yes," he said, muffled. "And I'm sorry that you're afraid, and I wish I could make you not be afraid, and I'm sorry that being afraid makes you run away, and I wish I could change all of that but I don't know _how_."  
"You're so sure you could," she said, and it was a flat statement and not a question because they both already knew the answer.  
"Of course," he said, unnecessarily, drawing himself up a little straighter and letting his hands fall from his face. "I'm _Willy Wonka._"

Completely out of the blue, she laughed. And couldn't seem to stop. And then the laughs became sobs and she began to lean forward on her cane, losing the strength to support herself in her hysteria. So he picked her up – she was so light, as if she never ate, and he realized this was a very valid possibility. Of course, she couldn't never eat, because you need food to survive, but someone so consumed – yes, consumed was a good word – all eaten up inside with guilt and fear wouldn't eat much anyway. But the point is that he picked her up and carried her over the bed and held her there while she sobbed and got his shirt quite wet and snotty, but that didn't matter because he had plenty of other shirts.

After a time, her sobs eased into hiccups and he dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and gave it to her. She wiped her face and leaned into him, pressing her face into the crook of his neck. And then she whispered something that made everything alright, now and forever.

"You know, I do love you, also. I meant to tell you after I told mother and father about us… and I've thought about it, and concluded that I really can't be having with all this running back and forth, not with my leg. It would be much more convenient if I just started living here again."

And his joy at hearing that was so great that he blurted out, not some great lover's speech or meaningful declaration of his dedication to her, but something that was infinitely more, well – _him_.

"I told you I filled the pool."

She smiled, and he felt the full warmth of her true smile and basked in it.

"The water feels just fine."


	12. Keep Smiling Forever

**A/Ns: Guess what this is, people? That's right. IT'S THE END. It is OVER. FINITO. FINIS. DONE.**

**_The Alchemist_ is a lovely book, suitable for all ages, and all should read it.**

* * *

_If you can tear down the walls, throw your armor away  
__Remove all roadblocks, barricades  
__If you can forget that there are bandits and dragons to slay  
__And don't forget that you defend an empty space  
__And remember the tinman found he had what he thought he lacked  
__Remember the tinman – go find your heart, and take it back_

- "Remember the Tinman," Tracy Chapman

Sara was sitting by the chocolate river, reading. Across the river, the Oompa Loompas were busy with their gardening, Grandpa Joe "supervising" by way of leaning against a rock-candy structure with his hat over his eyes. A little ways behind and to her right sat the crooked house of her childhood, where she knew that her mother was busy finishing dinner, as her father would soon be home.

She still worked on a part-time basis for the Landons, but perhaps she would soon stop that as well. She had never intended to be the kind of woman who stayed at home, at the mercy of the men in her life; then again, she had never intended to fall in love. At least not with Willy Wonka. She had done a great many things she had never intended to do over the past winter.

But it was winter no longer, and things were slowly settling into a new routine. She lived full-time at the factory now, in her own rooms (because her tiny little near-closet really wasn't enough for a woman full-grown), and the family was gradually knitting itself back together. Though her mother still tread carefully, and looked at her only daughter sometimes with tears in the corner of her eyes…

But that would go away in time, she was sure. She had faith.

The sound of movement behind her and warm arms came around her waist, pulling her against a strong torso, and a gloved hand came up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Whatcha reading?" Willy asked, in that particular way he had – not quite a boy, not fully a man. Sara relaxed into him as she answered. "A story, from when I was a little girl."

A small shift, a delicate tightening of his arms around her for a brief moment. She smiled, knowing what he wasn't quite sure he could ask, and began to read.

" 'The old man related that, a week before, he had been forced to appear before a miner, and had taken the form of a stone. The miner had abandoned everything to go mining for emeralds. For five years he had been working a certain river, and had examined hundreds of thousands of stones looking for an emerald. The miner was about to give it all up, right at the point when, if he were to examine just one more stone – just _one more_ – he would find his emerald. Since the miner had sacrificed everything to his destiny, the old man decided to become involved. He transformed himself into a stone that rolled up to the miner's foot. The miner, with all the anger and frustration of his five fruitless years, picked up the stone and threw I aside. But he had thrown it with such force that it broke the stone it fell upon, and there, embedded in the broken stone, was the most beautiful emerald in the world.' "

Silence, and then he rested his chin on her shoulder.

"What book is that?"  
"_The Alchemist_, by Paulo Coehlo."

He hummed deep in his throat, though she wasn't entirely sure that came from knowing the name of her book. Willy turned his head slightly, pressing his lips dry and cool against her neck.

"Have something to ask you," he mumbled.

"And what is it?"  
"Well…" and she felt him stiffen has he searched for the right words. "It's just that, I really like having you – you know, here. With me. 'Cause you know I l - "

The word got caught in his throat, and she nodded. He had trouble saying the important things, but that was all right; it meant that when he did have something to say, it was important.

"I know. What did you want to ask?"

He muttered something so quickly she couldn't catch it.

"What was that?"  
"Would you – do you want to, you know, maybe – um. Marry me."

She was silent for a long moment, a score of possible reactions stampeding through her head. She was, after all, so many different people – Ms. Bucket to her students, Mr. and Mrs. Bucket's crippled daughter to the old neighborhood, Charlie's older sister to relatives and family, a spinster with a bad leg and cold eyes to most others who knew her…

But finally she answered, not as any of those other people, but as Sara, who was only herself.

"Of course."  
"Oh," he said, seeming slightly surprised at her ready agreement. "Oh. Well, that's all right, then."

Across the river, Grandpa Joe (who had been watching the whole scene, and heard them both quite clearly for a man of his age) let his hat fall back over his eyes and settled back against the rock candy. It was about time, he thought, and then drifted off as the Oompa Loompas worked around him with a new spring in their step, the information having already been relayed to the factory's entire population.

A few levels down and a couple hallways to the right, Charlie looked at the clock and realized that he was going to miss dinner if he didn't leave off his work and go home. But he was so close to getting it right… he bent his blonde head back over the formula and cursed for the first time as fingers made clumsy by the onset of adolescence betrayed him.

Mr. Bucket knocked his shoes carefully against the side of the house to avoid tracking slush into the home his wife was so proud of and stepped over the threshold, opening his arms to embrace and kiss Mrs. Bucket, who laughed as the scent of dinner made his stomach rumble. Grandpa George grumbled that he was late, while Grandma Josephine looked past him, out the window to the river where Sara and Willy sat together, and smiled. Grandma Georgina, lost in her own world, smiled in her slightly confused way and asked if the Queen had come yet.

And all around them the factory pulsed with a life of its own, white smoke streaming from its tall smokestacks and filling the air around it with the scent of melted chocolate. It felt the lives inside it, such small sparks glowing with such great light, and was content.

And they all lived happily ever after.


End file.
